II 


IS  LOVE  STOR 

MARIE  VAN  VORST 


f/ 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


MARIE   VAN  VORST 

Author  of 

First  Lore,  The  Girl  From  HlaJTown 
The  Broken  Bell,  etc. 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

HOWARD  CHANDLER  CHRISTY 


NEW   YORK 

GROSSET  &   DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1913 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


ft 

Monsieur  le  Capitaine  Dadvisard 
de  la  Cavalerie  Fran^aise 

Parii,  1912 


2138548 


CONTENTS 


Chapter 

I  A  SERIOUS  EVENT          . 

II  JULIA  REDMOND      .        . 

III  A  SECOND  INVITATIO*    . 

IV  THE  DOG  PAYS 

V  THE  GOLDEN  AUTUMN   . 

VI  ORDERED  AWAY     . 

VII  A  SOLDIER'S  Doc 

VIII  HOMESICK 

IX  THE  FORTWNEI  OP  WAR 

X  TOGETHER  AGAIN 

XI  A  SACRED  TRUST  . 

XII  THE  NEWS  FROM  AFRICA 

XIII  ONE  Doc's  DAY     . 

XIV  AN  AMERICAN  GIRL 
XV  JULIA'S  ROMANCE  . 

XVI  THE  DUKE  IN  DOUBT     . 

XVII  Our  OF  THE  DESIRT 

XVIII  Two  LOVELY  WOMEH    . 

XIX  THE  MAN  IN  RAGS 

XX  JULIA  DECIDES 

XXI  MASTER  AND  FRIEND 

XXII  INTO  THE  DESERT  . 

XXIII  Two  LOVE  STORIES 

XXIV  THE  MEETING 
XXV  As  HANDSOME  DOES 

XXVI  CONGRATULATIONS 

XXVII  VALOR  IN  RETROSPECT   . 

XXVIII  HAPPINESS 


Put 

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24 

29 

40 

50 

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87 

102 

111 

122 

135 

153 

163 

16S 

184 

206 

216 

229 

241 

260 

264 

271 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


HIS   LOVE  STORY 

CHAPTER  I 

A    SERIOUS    EVENT 

E  COMTE  DE  SABRON,  in  the 
undress  uniform  of  captain  in  the 
Cavalry,  sat  smoking  and  think- 


ing.  .  .  .  What  is  the  use  of  being 
thirty  years  old  with  the  brevet  of  captain 
and  much  distinction  of  family  if  you  are 
a  poor  man — in  short,  what  is  the  good 
of  anything  if  you  are  alone  in  the  world 
and  no  one  cares  what  becomes  of  you? 

He  rang  his  bell,  and  when  his  ordon- 
nance  appeared,  said  sharply: 

"Que  diable  is  the  noise  in  the  stable, 
Brunet?  Don't  you  know  that  when  I 


-  (RaP*1 

£ogQ        HIS  LOVE  STORY 
ra 


<r 

smoke  at  this  hour  all  Tarascon  must  be 
kept  utterly  silent?" 

Tarascon  is  never  silent.  No  French 
meridional  town  is,  especially  in  the  warm 
sunlight  of  a  glorious  May  day. 

"The  noise,  mon  Capitaine/'  said  Bru- 
net,  "is  rather  melancholy." 

"Melancholy!"  exclaimed  the  young 
officer.  "It's  infernal.  Stop  it  at  once." 

The  ordo'nnance  held  his  kepi  in  his 
hand.  He  had  a  round  good-natured  face 
and  kind  gray  eyes  that  were  used  to 
twinkle  at  his  master's  humor  and  ca- 
prices. 

"I  beg  pardon,  mon  Capitaine^  but  a 
very  serious  event  is  taking  place." 

"It  will  be  more  serious  yet,  Brunet,  if 
you  don't  keep  things  quiet." 

"I  am  sorry  to  tell,  mon  Capitaine,  that 
Michette  has  just  died." 

"Michette!"     exclaimed     the     master. 


A  SERIOUS  EVENT 

"What  relation  is  she  of  yours,  Brunet?" 

"Ah,  mon  Capitaine"  grinned  the  or- 
donnance,  "relation!  None!  It  is  the 
little  terrier  that  Monsieur  le  Capi- 
taine may  have  remarked  now  and  then  in 
the  garden." 

Sabron  nodded  and  took  his  cigarette 
out  of  his  mouth  as  though  in  respect  for 
the  deceased. 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  said,  "that  melancholy 
little  dog!  Well,  Brunet!" 

"She  has  just  breathed  her  last,  mon 
Capitaine,  and  she  is  leaving  behind  her 
rather  a  large  family." 

"I  am  not  surprised,"  said  the  officer. 

"There  are  six,"  vouchsafed  Brunet, 
"of  which,  if  mon  Capitaine  is  willing,  I 
should  like  to  keep  one." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Sabron,  "on  no  ac- 
count. You  know  perfectly  well,  Brunet, 
that  I  don't  surround  myself  with  things 


[IS  LOVE  STORY 

^$& 
that  can  make  me  suffer.  I  have  not  kept 
a  dog  in  ten  years.  I  try  not  to  care  about 
my  horses  even.  Everything  to  which  I 
attach  myself  dies  or  causes  me  regret 
and  pain.  And  I  won't  have  any  miser- 
able little  puppy  to  complicate  existence." 

"Bien,  mon  Capitaine"  accepted  the 
ordonnance  tranquilly.  "I  have  given 
away  five.  The  sixth  is  in  the  stable;  if 
Monsieur  le  Capitaine  would  come  down 
and  look  at  it.  ...  " 

Sabron  rose,  threw  his  cigarette  away 
and,  following  across  the  garden  in  the 
bland  May  light,  went  into  the  stable 
where  Madame  Michette,  a  small  wire- 
haired  Irish  terrier  had  given  birth  to 
a  fine  family  and  herself  gone  the  way  of 
those  who  do  their  duty  to  a  race.  In  the 
straw  at  his  feet  Sabron  saw  a  rat-like, 
unprepossessing  little  object,  crawling 
about  feebly  in  search  of  warmth  and 

4 


A  SERIOUS  EVENT 


nourishment,  uttering  pitiful  little  cries. 
Its  extreme  loneliness  and  helplessness 
touched  the  big  soldier,  who  said  curtly 
to  his  man: 

"Wrap  it  up,  and  if  you  don't  know 
how  to  feed  it  I  should  not  be  surprised  if 
I  could  induce  it  to  take  a  little  warm 
milk  from  a  quill.  At  all  events  we  shall 
have  a  try  with  it  Fetch  it  along  to  my 
rooms." 

And  as  he  retraced  his  steps,  leaving 
his  order  to  be  executed,  he  thought  to 
himself:  The  little  beggar  is  not  much 
more  alone  in  the  world  than  I  am!  As 
he  said  that  he  recalled  a  word  in  the 
meridional  patois:  Pitchounf,  which 
means  "poor  little  thing." 

"I  shall  call  it  Pitchoune,"  he  thought, 
"and  we  shall  see  if  it  can't  do  better  than 
its  name  suggests." 

He  went  slowly  back  to  his  rooms  and 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 

«\ 

a-' 

busied  himself  at  his  table  with  his  cor- 
respondence. Among  the  letters  was  an 
invitation  from  the  Marquise  d'Esclig- 
nac,  an  American  married  to  a  French- 
man, and  the  great  lady  of  the  country 
thereabouts. 

"Will  you  not,"  she  wrote,  "come  to 
dine  with  us  on  Sunday  ?  I  have  my  niece 
with  me.  She  would  be  glad  to  see  a 
French  soldier.  She  has  expressed  such 
a  wish.  She  comes  from  a  country  where 
soldiers  are  rare.  We  dine  at  eight." 

Sabron  looked  at  the  letter  and  its  fine 
clear  handwriting.  Its  wording  was  less 
formal  than  a  French  invitation  is  likely 
to  be,  and  it  gave  him  a  sense  of  cor- 
diality. He  had  seen,  during  his  rides,  the 
beautiful  lines  of  the  Chateau  d'Esclig- 
nac.  Its  turrets  surely  looked  upon  the 
Rhone.  There  would  be  a  divine  view 
from  the  terraces.  It  would  be  a  pleasure 
6 


A  SERIOUS  EVENT 


to  go  there.  He  thought  more  of  what 
the  place  would  be  than  of  the  people  in 
it,  for  he  was  something  of  a  hermit, 
rather  a  recluse,  and  very  reserved. 

He  was  writing  a  line  of  acceptance 
when  Brunet  came  in,  a  tiny  bundle  in  his 
hand. 

"Put  Pitchoune  over  there  in  the  sun- 
light," ordered  the  officer,  "and  we  shall 
see  if  we  can  bring  him  up  by  hand." 


CHAPTER  II 

JULIA    REDMOND 

HE  REMEMBERED  all  his  life  the 
first  dinner  at  the  Chateau  d'Es- 
clignac,  where  from  the  terrace  he  saw 
the  Rhone  lying  under  the  early  moonlight 
and  the  shadows  falling  around  the  castle 
of  good  King  Rene. 

As  he  passed  in,  his  sword  clanking — 
for  he  went  in  full  dress  uniform  to  dine 
with  the  Marquise  d'Esclignac — he  saw 
the  picture  the  two  ladies  made  in  their 
drawing-room:  the  marquise  in  a  very 
splendid  dress  (which  he  never  could  re- 
member) and  her  niece,  a  young  lady 
from  a  country  whose  name  it  took  him 
long  to  learn  to  pronounce,  in  a  dress  so 
simple  that  of  course  he  never  could  for- 
8 


JULIA  REDMOND 


get  it  !  He  remembered  for  a  great  many 
years  the  fall  of  the  ribbon  at  her  pretty 
waist,  the  bunch  of  sweet  peas  at  her 
girdle,  and  he  always  remembered  the 
face  that  made  the  charm  of  the  picture. 
Their  welcome  to  him  was  gracious. 
The  American  girl  spoke  French  with  an 
accent  that  Sabron  thought  bewilderingly 
charming,  and  he  put  aside  some  of  his 
reserve  and  laughed  and  talked  at  his  ease. 
After  dinner  (this  he  remembered  with 
peculiar  distinctness)  Miss  Redmond  sang 
for  him,  and  although  he  understood  none 
of  the  words  of  the  English  ballad,  he 
learned  the  melody  by  heart  and  it  fol- 
lowed with  him  when  he  left.  It  went 
with  him  as  he  crossed  the  terrace  into 
the  moonlight  to  mount  his  horse  ;  it  went 
home  with  him  ;  he  hummed  it,  and  when 
he  got  up  to  his  room  he  hummed  it 
again  as  he  bent  over  the  little  roll  of 

9 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 

^ 
<r 

flannel  in  the  corner  and  fed  the  puppy 
hot  milk  from  a  quill. 

This  was  a  painstaking  operation  and 
required  patience  and  delicacy,  both  of 
which  the  big  man  had  at  his  finger-tips. 
The  tune  of  Miss  Redmond's  song  did  for 
a  lullaby  and  the  puppy  fell  comfortably 
to  sleep  while  Sabron  kept  the  picture  of 
his  evening's  outing  contentedly  in  his 
mind.  But  later  he  discovered  that  he 
was  not  so  contented,  and  counted  the 
hours  when  he  might  return. 

He  shortly  made  a  call  at  the  Chateau 
d'Esclignac  with  the  result  that  he  had 
a  new  picture  to  add  to  his  collection. 
This  time  it  was  the  picture  of  a  lady 
alone;  the  Marquise  d'Esclignac  doing 
tapestry.  While  Sabron  found  that  he 
had  grown  reticent  again,  he  listened  for 
another  step  and  another  voice  and  heard 
nothing;  but  before  he  took  leave  there 
10 


§§oO         JULIA  REDMOND 


was  a  hint  of  a  second  invitation  to  din- 
ner. 

The  marquise  was  very  handsome  that 
afternoon  and  wore  yet  another  bewilder- 
ing dress.  Sabron's  simple  taste  was  daz- 
zled. Nevertheless,  she  made  a  graceful 
picture,  one  of  beauty  and  refinement, 
and  the  young  soldier  took  it  away  with 
him.  As  his  horse  began  to  trot,  at  the 
end  of  the  alley,  near  the  poplars  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  rose  terrace  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  white  dress  (undoubtedly  a 
simpler  dress  than  that  worn  by  Madame 
d'Esclignac^. 


ii 


CHAPTER  III 

A    SECOND    INVITATION 

"T  DON'T  think,  mon  'Capitaine,  that 
JL  it  is  any  use,"  Brunet  told  his  mas- 
ter. 

Sabron,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  sat  before  a 
table  on  which,  in  a  basket,  lay  Michette's 
only  surviving  puppy.  It  was  a  month 
old.  Sabron  already  knew  how  bright  its 
eyes  were  and  how  alluring  its  young 
ways. 

"Be  still,  Brunet,"  commanded  the  offi- 
cer. "You  do  not  come  from  the  south 
or  you  would  be  more  sanguine.  Pit- 
choune  has  got  to  live." 

The  puppy's  clumsy  adventuresome  feet 
had  taken  him  as  far  as  the  highroad,  and 
on  this  day,  as  it  were  in  order  that  he 


A  SECOND  INVITATION  "£2<*8< 


should  understand  the  struggle  for  exist- 
ence, a  bicycle  had  cut  him  down  in  the 
prime  of  his  youth,  and  now,  according 
to  Brunet,  "there  wasn't  much  use!" 

Pitchoune  was  bandaged  around  his 
hind  quarters  and  his  adorable  little  head 
and  forepaws  came  out  of  the  handker- 
chief bandage. 

"He  won't  eat  anything  from  me,  won 
Capitaine,"  said  Brunet,  and  Sabron  cere- 
moniously opened  the  puppy's  mouth  and 
thrust  down  a  dose.  Pitchoune  swallowed 
obediently. 

Sabron  had  just  returned  from  a  long 
hard  day  with  his  troops,  and  tired  out 
as  he  was,  he  forced  himself  to  give  his 
attention  to  Pitchoune.  A  second  invi- 
tation to  dinner  lay  on  his  table;  he  had 
counted  the  days  until  this  night.  It 
seemed  too  good  to  be  true,  he  thought, 
that  another  picture  was  to  add  itself  to 

13 


HIS  LOVE    5TORY        (,^0( 


his  collection!  He  had  mentally  enjoyed 
the  others  often,  giving  preference  to  the 
first,  when  he  dined  at  the  chateau;  but 
there  had  been  a  thrill  in  the  second 
caused  by  the  fluttering  of  the  white  dress 
down  by  the  poplar  walk. 

To-night  he  would  have  the  pleasure 
of  taking  in  Miss  Redmond  to  dinner. 

"See,  mon  Capitaine,"  said  Brunet,  "the 
poor  little  fellow  can't  swallow  it." 

The  water  trickled  out  from  either  side 
of  Pitchoune's  mouth.  The  sturdy  terrier 
refused  milk  in  all  forms,  had  done  so 
since  Sabron  weaned  him;  but  Sabron 
now  returned  to  his  nursery  days,  made 
Brunet  fetch  him  warm  milk  and,  taking 
the  quill,  dropped  a  few  drops  of  the 
soothing  liquid,  into  which  he  put  a  dash 
of  brandy,  down  Pitchoune's  throat. 
Pitchoune  swallowed,  got  the  drink  down, 
gave  a  feeble  yelp,  and  closed  his  eyes. 

14 


SECOND  INVITATION 


When  he  opened  them  the  glazed  look  had 
gone. 

The  officer  hurried  into  his  evening 
clothes  and  ordered  Brunet,  as  he  tied 
his  cravat,  to  feed  the  puppy  a  little  of 
the  stimulant  every  hour  until  he  should 
return.  Pitchoune's  eyes,  now  open,  fol- 
lowed his  handsome  master  to  the  door. 
As  Sabron  opened  it  he  gave  a  pathetic 
yelp  which  made  the  capitaine  turn  about. 

"Believe  me,  mon  Capitaine/'  said  the 
ordonnance  with  melancholy  fatality,  "it 
is  no  use.  If  I  am  left  with  Pitchoune 
it  will  be  to  see  him  die.  I  know  his  spirit, 
mon  Capitaine.  He  lives  for  you  alone." 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  young  officer  im- 
patiently, drawing  on  his  gloves. 

Pitchoune  gave  a  plaintive  wail  from 
the  bandages  and  tried  to  stir. 

"As  for  feeding  him,  mon  Capitaine," 


the  ordonnance  threw  up  his  hands,  "he 
will  be  stiff  by  the  time     ..." 

But  Sabron  was  half-way  down  the 
stairs.  The  door  was  open,  and  on  the 
porch  he  heard  distinctly  a  third  tenderly 
pathetic  wail. 

*•••••• 

That  evening  the  Marquise  d'Esclig- 
nac  read  aloud  to  her  niece  the  news  that 
the  Count  de  Sabron  was  not  coming  to 
dinner.  He  was  "absolutely  desolated" 
and  had  no  words  to  express  his  regret 
and  disappointment.  The  pleasure  of 
dining  with  them  both,  a  pleasure  to  which 
he  had  looked  forward  for  a  fortnight, 
must  be  renounced  because  he  was  obliged 
to  sit  up  with  a  very  sick  friend,  as  there 
was  no  one  else  to  take  his  place.  In  ex- 
pressing his  undying  devotion  and  his  re- 
newed excuses  he  put  his  homage  at  their 
feet  and  kissed  their  hands. 


A  SECOND  INVITATION 

«4& 

The  Marquise  d'Esclignac,  wearing 
another  very  beautiful  dress,  looked  up  at 
her  niece,  who  was  playing  at  the  piano. 

"A  very  poor  excuse,  my  dear  Julia, 
and  a  very  late  pne." 

"It  sounds  true,  however.  I  believe 
him,  don't  you,  ma  tante?" 

"I  do  not"  said  the  marquise  emphat- 
ically. "A  Frenchman  of  good  education 
is  not  supposed  to  refuse  a  dinner  invita- 
tion an  hour  before  he  is  expected.  Noth- 
ing but  a  case  of  life  and  death  would 
excuse  it." 

"He  says  a  Very  sick  friend.' ' 

"Nonsense,"  exclaimed  the  marquise. 

Miss  Redmond  played  a  few  bars  of 
the  tune  Sabron  had  hummed  and  which 
more  than  once  had  soothed  Pitchoune, 
and  which,  did  she  know,  Sabron  was  ac- 
tually humming  at  that  moment. 

"I  am  rather  disappointed,"  said  the 

17 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 

^ 
^ 

young  girl,  "but  if  we  find  it  is  a  matter 
of  life  and  death,  ma  tante,  we  will  for- 
give him?" 

The  Marquise  d'Esclignac  had  invited 
the  Count  de  Sabron  because  she  had  been 
asked  to  do  so  by  his  colonel,  who  was  an 
old  and  valued  friend.  She  had  other 
plans  for  her  niece. 

"I  feel,  my  dear,"  she  answered  her 
now,  "quite  safe  in  promising  that  if  it 
is  a  question  of  life  and  death  we  shall 
forgive  him.  I  shall  see  his  colonel  to- 
morrow and  ask  him  pointblank." 

Miss  Redmond  rose  from  the  piano  and 
came  pver  to  her  aunt,  for  dinner  had 
been  announced. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think,"  she  slipped 
her  hand  in  her  aunt's  arm,  "really,  what 
dp  you  think  could  be  the  reason?" 

"Please  don't  ask  me,"  exclaimed  the 
Marquise  d'Esclignac  impatiently.  "The 
18 


A  SECOND  INVITATION 
fy' 


reasons  for  young  men's  caprices  are 
sometimes  just  as  well  not  inquired  into." 
If  Sabron,  smoking  in  his  bachelor 
quarters,  lonely  and  disappointed,  watch- 
ing with  an  extraordinary  fidelity  .by  his 
"sick  friend,"  could  have  seen  the  two 
ladies  at  their  grand  solitary  dinner,  his 
unfilled  place  between  them,  he  might 
have  felt  the  picture  charming  enough  to 
have  added  to  his  collection. 


I9 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   DOG    PAYS 

PITCHOUNE  repaid  what  was  given 
him. 

He  did  not  think  that  by  getting  well, 
reserving  the  right  for  the  rest  of  his 
life  to  a  distinguished  limp  in  his  right 
leg,  that  he  had  done  all  that  was  ex- 
pected of  him.  He  developed  an  ecstatic 
devotion  to  the  captain,  impossible  for  any 
human  heart  adequately  to  return.  He 
followed  Sabron  like  a  shadow  and  when 
he  could  not  follow  him,  took  his  place  on 
a  chair  in  the  window,  there  to  sit,  his 
sharp  profile  against  the  light,  his  pointed 
ears  forward,  watching  for  the  uniform 
he  knew  and  admired  extravagantly. 

Pitchoune   was   a   thoroughbred,   and 


THE  DOG  PAYS 


every  muscle  and  fiber  showed  it,  every 
hair  and  point  asserted  it,  and  he  loved  as 
only  thoroughbreds  can.  You  may  say 
what  you  like  about  mongrel  attachments, 
the  thoroughbred  in  all  cases  reserves  his 
brilliancy  for  crises. 

Sabron,  who  had  only  seen  Miss  Red- 
mond twice  and  thought  about  her  count- 
less times,  never  quite  forgave  his  friend 
for  the  illness  that  kept  him  from  the 
chateau.  There  was  in  Sabron's  mind, 
much  as  he  loved  Pitchoune,  the  feeling 
that  if  he  had  gone  that  night  .  .  . 

There  was  never  another  invitation  ! 

"Voyons,  mon  cher,"  his  colonel  had 
said  to  him  kindly  the  next  time  he  met 
him,  "what  stupidity  have  you  been  guilty 
of  at  the  Chateau  d'Esclignac?" 

Poor  Sabron  blushed  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"I  assure  you,"  said  the  colonel,  "that 
21 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


I  did  you  harm  there  without  knowing 
it.  Madame  d'Esclignac,  who  is  a  very 
clever  woman,  asked  me  with  in- 
terest and  sympathy,  who  your  Very  sick 
friend'  could  be.  As  no  one  was  very 
sick  according  to  my  knowledge,  I  told 
her  so.  She  seemed  triumphant  and  I 
saw  at  once  that  I  had  put  you  in  the 
wrpng." 

It  would  have  been  simple  to  have  ex- 
plained to  the  colonel,  but  Sabron,  reticent 
and  reserved,  did  not  choose  to  do  so.  He 
made  a  very  insufficient  excuse,  and  the 
colonel,  as  well  as  the  marquise,  thought 
ill  of  him.  He  learned  later,  with  chagrin, 
that  his  friends  were  gone  from  the  Midi. 
Rooted  to  the  spot  himself  by  his  duties, 
he  could  not  follow  them.  Meanwhile 
Pitchoune  thrived,  grew,  cheered  his  lone- 
liness, jumped  over  a  stick,  learned  a  trick 
or  twp  from  Brunet  and  a  great  many  fas- 


"*%£&$$ 

THE  DOG  PAYS 


cinating  wiles  and  ways,  no  doubt  inher- 
ited from  his  mother.  He  had  a  sense  of 
humor  truly  Irish,  a  power  of  devotion 
that  we  designate  as  "canine,"  no  doubt 
because  no  member  of  the  human  race  has 
ever  deserved  it 


23 

'of 


CHAPTER  V, 

THE    GOLDEN    AUTUMN 

SAB  RON  longed  for  a  change  with  au- 
tumn, when  the  falling  leaves  made 
the  roads  golden  roundabout  the  Chateau 
d'Esclignac.  He  thought  he  would  like 
to  go  away.  He  rode  his  horse  one  day  up 
to  the  property  of  the  hard-hearted  unfor- 
giving lady  and,  finding  the  gate  open, 
rode  through  the  grounds  up  to  the  ter- 
race. Seeing  no  one,  he  sat  in  his  saddle 
looking  over  the  golden  country  to  the 
Rhone  and  the  castle  of  the  good  King 
Ren6,  where  the  autumn  mists  were  like 
banners  floating  from  the  towers. 

There  was  a  solitary  beauty  around  the 
lovely  place  that  spoke  to  the  young  offi- 
cer with  a  sweet  melancholy.  He  fancied 
that  Miss  Redmond  must  often  have 


THE  GOLDEN  AUTUMN 


looked  out  from  one  of  the  windows,  and 
he  wondered  which  one.  The  terrace  was 
deserted  and  leaves  from  the  vines 
strewed  it  with  red  and  golden  specters. 
Pitchoune  raced  after  them,  for  the  wind 
started  them  flying,  and  he  rolled  his 
tawny  little  body  over  and  over  in  the 
rustling  leaves.  Then  a  rabbit,  which  be- 
fore the  arrival  of  Sabron  had  been  sitting 
comfortably  on  the  terrace  stones,  scuttled 
away  like  mad,  and  Pitchoune,  somewhat 
hindered  by  his  limp,  tore  after  it. 

The  deserted  chateau,  the  fact  that 
there  was  nothing  in  his  military  life  be-? 
yond  the  routine  to  interest  him  now  in 
Tarascon,  made  Sabron  eagerly  look  for- 
ward to  a  change,  and  he  waited  for  let- 
ters from  the  minister  of  war  which 
would  send  him  to  a  new  post. 

The  following  day  after  his  visit  to  the 
chateau  he  took  a  walk,  Pitchoune  at  hii 

25 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


heels,  and  stood  aside  in  the  highroad  to 
let  a  yellow  motor  pass  him,  but  the  yel- 
low motor  at  that  moment  drew  up  to  the 
side  of  the  road  while  the  chauffeur  got 
out  to  adjust  some  portion  of  the  mech- 
anism. Some  one  leaned  from  the  yellow 
motor  window  and  Sabron  came  forward 
to  speak  to  the  Marquise  d'Esclignac 
and  another  lady  by  her  side. 

"How  do  you  do,  Monsieur?  Do  you 
remember  us?" 

(Had  he  ever  forgotten  them?J  He 
regretted  so  very  much  not  having  been 
able  to  dine  with  them  in  the  spring. 

"And  your  sick  friend?"  asked  Madame 
d'Esclignac  keenly,  "did  he  recover?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sabron,  and  Miss  Red- 
mond, who  leaned  forward,  smiled  at  him 
and  extended  her  pretty  hand.  Sabron 
opened  the  motor  door. 

"What  a  darling  dog!"  Miss  Redmond 

26 


THE  GOLDEN  AUTUMN 

22 


cried.    "What  a  bewitching  face  he  has! 
He's  an  Irish  terrier,  isn't  he?" 

Sabron  called  Pitchoune,  who  diverted 
his  attention  from  the  chauffeur  to  come 
and  be  hauled  up  by  the  collar  and  pre- 
sented. Sabron  shook  off  his  reticence. 

"Let  me  make  a  confession,"  he  said 
with  a  courteous  bow.  "This  is  my  Very 
sick  friend.'  Pitchoune  was  at  the  point 
of  death  the  night  of  your  dinner  and  I 
was  just  leaving  the  house  when  I  realized 
that  the  helpless  little  chap  could  not 
weather  the  breeze  without  me.  He  had 
been  run  over  by  a  bicycle  and  he  needed 
some  very  special  care." 

Miss  Redmond's  hand  was  on  Pit- 
choune's  head,  between  his  pointed  ears. 
She  looked  sympathetic.  She  looked 
amused.  She  smiled. 

"It  was  a  question  of  'life  and  death,' 
wasn't  it?"  she  said  eagerly  tp  Sabron. 
27 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


"Really,  it  was  just  that,"  answered  the 
young  officer,  not  knowing  how  significant 
the  words  were  to  the  two  ladies. 

Then  Madame  d'Esclignac  knew  that 
she  was  beaten  and  that  she  owed  some- 
thing and  was  ready  to  pay.  The  chauf- 
>feur  got  up  on  his  seat  and  she  asked 
suavely  : 

"Won't  you  let  us  take  you  home,  Mon- 
sieur Sabron?" 

He  thanked  them.  He  was  walking 
and  had  not  finished  his  exercise. 

"At  all  events,"  she  pursued,  "now  that 
your  excuse  is  no  longer  a  good  one,  you 
will  come  this  week  to  dinner,  will  you 
not?" 

He  would,  of  course,  and  watched  the 
yellow  motor  drive  away  in  the  autumn 
sunlight,  wishing  rather  less  for  the  order 
from  the  minister  of  war  to  change  his 
quarters  than  he  had  before. 
28 


CHAPTER  VI 

ORDERED   AWAY 

HE  HAD  received  his  letter  from 
the  minister  of  war.  Like  many 
things  we  wish  for,  set  our  hopes  upon, 
when  they  come  we  find  that  we  do  not 
want  them  at  any  price.  The  order  was 
unwelcome.  Sabron  was  to  go  to  Algiers. 
Winter  is  never  very  ugly  around 
Tarascon.  Like  a  lovely  bunch  pf  fruit 
in  the  brightest  corner  of  a  happy  vine- 
yard, the  Midi  is  sheltered  from  the  rude 
experiences  that  the  seasons  know  farther 
north.  Nevertheless,  rains  and  winds, 
sea-born  and  vigorous,  had  swept  in  and 
upon  the  little  town.  The  mistral  came 
whistling  and  Sabron,  from  his  window, 
looked  down  on  his  little  garden  from 
29 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


which  summer  had  entirely  flown.  Pit- 
choune,  by  his  side,  looked  down  as  well, 
but  his  expression,  different  from  his  mas- 
ter's, was  ecstatic,  for  he  saw,  sliding 
along  the  brick  wall,  a  cat  with  which  he 
was  on  the  most  excited  terms.  His  body 
tense,  his  ears  forward,  he  gave  a  sharp 
series  of  barks  and  little  soft  growls,  while 
his  master  tapped  the  window-pane  to  the 
tune  of  Miss  Redmond's  song. 

Although  Sabron  had  heard  it  several 
times,  he  did  not  know  the  words  or  that 
they  were  of  a  semi-religious,  extremely 
sentimental  character  which  would  have 
been  difficult  to  translate  into  French.  He 
did  not  know  that  they  ran  something  like 
this: 

"God  keep  you  safe,  my  love, 

All  through  the  night; 
Rest  close  in  His  encircling  arms 
Until  the  light." 


And  there  was  more  of  it.  He  only 
knew  that  there  was  a  pathos  in  the  tune 
which  spoke  to  his  warm  heart;  which 
caressed  and  captivated  him  and  which 
made  him  long  deeply  for  a  happiness  he 
thought  it  most  unlikely  he  would  ever 
know. 

There  had  been  many  pictures  added  to 
his  collection :  Miss  Redmond  at  dinner, 
Miss  Julia  Redmond — he  knew  her  first 
name  now — before  the  piano;  Miss  Red- 
mond in  a  smart  coat,  walking  with  him 
down  the  alley,  while  Pitchoune  chased 
flying  leaves  and  apparitions  of  rabbits 
hither  and  thither. 

The  Count  de  Sabron  had  always 
dreaded  just  what  happened  to  him.  He 
had  fallen  in  love  with  a  woman  beyond 
his  reach,  for  he  had  no  fortune  what- 
soever, nothing  but  his  captain's  pay  and 
his  hard  soldier's  life,  a  wanderer's  life 

3* 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


and  one  which  he  hesitated  to  ask  a 
woman  to  share.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that 
Madame  d'Esclignac  was  agreeable  to 
him,  she  was  not  cordial,  and  he  under- 
stood that  she  did  not  consider  him  a  parti 
for  her  niece.  Other  guests,  as  well  as 
he,  had  shared  her  hospitality.  He  had 
been  jealous  of  them,  though  he  could  not 
help  seeing  Miss  Redmond's  preference 
for  himself.  Not  that  he  wanted  to  help 
it.  He  recalled  that  she  had  really  sung 
to  him,  decidedly  walked  by  his  side  when 
there  had  been  more  than  the  quartette, 
and  he  felt,  in  short,  her  sympathy. 

"Pitchoune,"  he  said  to  his  companion, 
"we  are  better  off  in  Algiers,  mon  vieux. 
The  desert  is  the  place  for  us.  We  shall 
get  rid  of  fancies  there  and  do  some  hard 
fighting  one  way  or  another." 

Pitchoune,  whose  eyes  had  followed 
the  cat  out  of  sight,  sprang  upon  his  mas- 


ter  and  seemed  quite  ready  for  the  new 
departure. 

"I  shall  at  least  have  you,"  Sabron  said. 
"It  will  be  your  first  campaign.  We  shall 
have  some  famous  runs  and  I  shall  intro- 
duce you  to  a  camel  and  make  you  ac- 
quainted with  several  donkeys,  not  to 
speak  of  the  historic  Arab  steeds.  You 
will  see,  my  friend,  that  there  are  other 
animals  besides  yourself  in  creation." 

"A  telegram  for  mon  capitaine."  Bru- 
net  came  in  with  the  blue  envelope  which 
Sabron  tore  open. 

"You  will  take  with  you  neither  horses 
nor  dogs" 

It  wa§  an  order  from  the  minister  of 
war,  just  such  a  one  as  was  sent  to  some 
half-dozen  other  young  officers,  all  of 
whom,  no  doubt,  felt  more  or  less  dis- 
comfited. 

Sabron  twisted  the  telegram,  put  it  in 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


the  fireplace  and  lighted  his  cigarette  with 
it,  watching  Pitchoune  who,  finding  him- 
self a  comfortable  corner  in  the  armchair, 
had  settled  down  for  a  nap. 

"So,"  nodded  the  young  man  aloud,  "I 
shall  not  even  have  Pitchoune." 

He  smoked,  musing.  In  the  rigid  dis- 
cipline of  his  soldier's  life  he  was  used  to 
obedience.  His  softened  eyes,  however, 
and  his  nervous  fingers  as  they  pulled  at 
his  mustache,  showed  that  the  command 
had  touched  him. 

"What  shall  I  do  with  you,  old  fellow  ?" 

Although  Sabron's  voice  was  low,  the 
dog,  whose  head  was  down  upon  his  paws, 
turned  his  bright  brown  eyes  on  his  mas- 
ter with  so  much  confidence  and  affection 
that  it  completed  the  work.  Sabron 
walked  across  the  floor,  smoking,  the 
spurs  on  his  heels  clanking,  the  light  shin- 
ing on  his  brilliant  boots  and  on  his  uni- 


ORDERED  AWAY 


form.  He  was  a  splendid-looking  man 
with  race  and  breeding,  and  he  combined 
with  his  masculine  force  the  gentleness  of 
a  woman. 

"They  want  me  to  be  lonely,"  he 
thought.  "All  that  the  chiefs  consider  is 
the  soldier  —  not  the  man  —  even  the  com- 
panionship of  my  dog  is  denied  me.  What 
do  they  think  I  am  going  to  do  out  there 
in  the  long  eastern  evenings?"  He  re- 
flected. "What  does  the  world  expect  an 
uncompanioned  wanderer  to  do  ?"  There 
are  many  things  and  the  less  thought 
about  them,  the  better. 

"A  letter  for  Monsieur  le  Capitaine." 
Brunet  returned  with  a  note  which  he  pre- 
sented stiffly,  and  Pitchoune,  who  chose 
in  his  little  brain  to  imagine  Brunet  an  in- 
truder, sprang  from  the  chair  like  light- 
ning, rushed  at  the  servant,  seized  the  leg 
of  his  pantaloons  and  began  to  worry 

35 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


them,  growling,  Brunet  regarding  him 
with  adoration.  Sabron  had  not  thought 
aloud  the  last  words  of  the  telegram, 
which  he  had  used  to  light  his  cigarette. 

"...  Nor  will  it  be  necessary  to 
take  a  personal  servant.  The  indigenes 
are  capable  ordonnances." 

As  he  took  the  letter  from  Brunet's 
salver  he  said  curtly : 

"I  am  ordered  to  Algiers  and  I  shall 
not  take  horses  nor  Pitchoune." 

The  dog,  at  the  mention  of  his  name, 
set  Brunet's  leg  free  and  stood  quiet,  his 
head  lifted. 

"Nor  you  either,  mon  brave  Brunet." 
Sabron  put  his  hand  on  his  servant's 
shoulder,  the  first  familiarity  he  had  ever 
shown  a  man  who  served  him  with  devo- 
tion, and  who  would  have  given  his  life 
to  save  his  master's.  "Those,"  said  the 

36 


ORDERED  AWAY 


pfficer  curtly,  "are  the  orders  from  head- 
quarters, and  the  least  said  about  them 
the  better." 

The  ruddy  cheek  of  the  servant  turned 
pale.  He  mechanically  touched  his  fore- 
head. 

"Bien,  mon  Capitaine"  he  murmured, 
with  a  little  catch  in  his  voice.  He  stood 
at  attention,  then  wheeled  and  without 
being  dismissed,  stalked  out  of  the  room. 

Pitchoune  did  not  follow.  He  remained 
immovable  like  a  little  dog  cut  from 
bronze;  he  understood  —  who  shall  say  — 
how  much  of  the  conversation?  Sabron 
threw  away  his  cigarette,  then  read  his 
letter  by  the  mantelpiece,  leaning  his 
arm  upon  it.  He  read  slowly.  He  had 
broken  the  seal  slowly.  It  was  the  first 
letter  he  had  ever  seen  in  this  handwriting. 
It  was  written  in  French  and  ran  thus  : 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


"Monsieur  :  —  My  aunt  wishes  me  to  ask 
you  if  you  will  come  to  us  for  a  little  mu- 
sicale  to-morrow  afternoon.  We  hope 
you  will  be  free,  and  /  hope,"  she  added, 
"that  you  will  bring  Pitchoune.  Not  that 
I  think  he  will  care  for  the  music,  but  aft- 
erward perhaps  he  will  run  with  us  as  we 
walk  to  the  gate.  My  aunt  wishes  me  to 
say  that  she  has  learned  from  the  colonel 
that  you  have  been  ordered  to  Algiers. 
In  this  way  she  says  that  we  shall  have  an 
opportunity  of  wishing  you  bon  voyage, 
and  I  say  I  hope  Pitchoune  will  be  a  com- 
fort to  you." 

The  letter  ended  in  the  usual  formal 
French  fashion.  Sabron,  turning  the  let- 
ter and  rereading  it,  found  that  it  com- 
pleted the  work  that  had  been  going  on  in 
his  lonely  heart.  He  stood  long,  musing. 

Pitchoune  laid  himself  down  on  the 
rug,  his  bright  little  head  between  his 
paws,  his  affectionate  eyes  on  his  master. 
The  firelight  shone  on  them  both,  the  mus- 
ing young  officer  and  the  almost  human- 

38 


ORDERED  AWAY 


hearted  little  beast.  So  Brunet  found  them 
when  he  came  in  with  the  lamp  shortly, 
and  as  he  set  it  down  on  the  table  and 
its  light  shone  on  him,  Sabron,  glancing 
at  the  ordonnance,  saw  that  his  eyes  were 
red,  and  liked  him  none  the  less  for  it 


CHAPTER  VII 
A   SOLDIER'S  DOG 

T  IS  just  as  I  thought,"  he  told  Pit- 
choune.  "I  took  you  into  my  life, 
you  little  rascal,  against  my  will,  and  now, 
although  it's  not  your  fault,  you  are  mak- 
ing me  regret  it.  I  shall  end,  Pitchoune, 
by  being  a  cynic  and  misogynist,  and  learn 
to  make  idols  of  my  career  and  my  troops 
alone.  After  all,  they  may  be  tiresome, 
but  they  don't  hurt  as  you  do,  and  some 
other  things  as  well." 

Pitchoune*,  being  invited  to  the  musicale 
at  the  Chateau  d'Esclignac,  went  along 
with  his  master,  running  behind  the  cap- 
tain's horse.  It  was  a  heavenly  January 
day,  soft  and  mild,  full  of  sunlight  and 
delicious  odors,  and  over  the  towers  of 
40 


A  SOLDIER'S  DOG          SgSfl 

*    JL.  *»f^Vt/    * 

^ 

King  Rene's  castle  the  sky  banners  were 
made  of  celestial  blue. 

The  officer  found  the  house  full  of  peo- 
ple. He  thought  it  hard  that  he  might 
not  have  had  one  more  intimate  picture 
to  add  to  his  collection.  When  he  entered 
the  room  a  young  man  was  playing  a  vio- 
loncello. There  was  a  group  at  the  piano, 
and  among  the  people  the  only  ones  he 
clearly  saw  were  the  hostess,  Madame 
d'Esclignac  in  a  gorgeous  velvet  frock, 
then  Miss  Redmond,  who  stood  by  the 
window,  listening  to  the  music.  She  saw 
him  come  in  and  smiled  to  him,  and  from 
that  moment  his  eyes  hardly  left  her. 

What  the  music  was  that  afternoon  the 
Count  de  Sabron  could  not  have  told  very 
intelligently.  Much  of  it  was  sweet,  all  of 
it  was  touching,  but  when  Miss  Redmond 
stood  to  sing  and  chose  the  little  song  of 
which  he  had  made  a  lullaby,  and  sang  it 


_-  ^/> 
HIS  LOVE  STORY 

divinely,  Sabron,  his  hands  clasped  be- 
hind his  back  and  his  head  a  little  bent, 
still  looking  at  her,  thought  that  his  heart 
would  break.  It  was  horrible  to  go  away 
and  not  tell  her.  It  was  cowardly  to  feel  so 
much  and  not  be  able  to  speak  of  it.  And 
he  felt  that  he  might  be  equal  to  some 
wild  deed,  such  as  crossing  the  room 
violently,  putting  his  hand  over  her  slen- 
der one  and  saying : 

"I  am  a  soldier;  I  have  nothing  but  a 
soldier's  life.  I  am  going  to  Africa  to- 
morrow. Come  with  me;  I  want  you. 
Come!" 

All  of  which,  slightly  impossible  and 
quite  out  of  the  question,  nevertheless 
charmed  and  soothed  him.  The  words  of 
her  English  song,  almost  barbaric  to  him 
because  incomprehensible,  fell  on  his  ears. 
Its  melody  was  already  part  of  him. 

"Monsieur  de  Sabron,"  said  Madame 


&%w 

LfogoV/ 

C&"v3jR! 


A  SOLDIER'S  DOG 


d'Esclignac,  "you  are  going  away  to- 
morrow ?" 

"Yes,  Madame." 

"I  expect  you  will  be  engaged  in  some 
awful  native  skirmishes.  Perhaps  you 
will  even  be  able  to  send  back  a  tiger 
skin." 

"There  are  no  tigers  in  that  part  of 
Africa,  Madame." 

The  young  soldier's  dark  eyes  rested 
almost  hostilely  on  the  gorgeous  marquise 
in  her  red  gown.  He  felt  that  she  was 
glad  to  have  him  go.  He  wanted  to  say  : 
"I  shall  come  back,  however  ;  I  shall  come 
back  and  when  I  return"  .  .  .  but  he 
knew  that  such  a  boast,  or  even  such  a 
hope  was  fruitless. 

His  colonel  had  told  him  only  the  day 
before  that  Miss  Redmond  was  one  of  the 
richest  American  heiresses,  and  there  was 
a  question  of  a  duke  or  a  prince  and 

43 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


heaven  only  knew  what  in  the  way  pf 
titles.  As  the  marquise  moved  away  her 
progress  was  something  like  the  rolling  of 
an  elegant  velvet  chair,  and  while  his 
feelings  were  still  disturbed  Miss  Red- 
mond crossed  the  room  to  him.  Before 
Sabron  quite  knew  how  they  had  been 
able  to  escape  the  others  or  leave  the 
room,  he  was  standing  with  her  in  the 
winter  garden  where  the  sunlight  came  in 
through  trellises  and  the  perfume  of  the 
warmed  plants  was  heavy  and  sweet.  Be- 
low them  flowed  the  Rhone,  golden  in  the 
winter's  light.  The  blue  river  swept  its 
waves  around  old  Tarascon  and  the  bat- 
tlements of  King  Rene's  towers. 

"You  are  going  to  Algiers  to-morrow, 
Monsieur  de  Sabron?"  Miss  Redmond 
smiled,  and  how  was  Sabron  to  realize 
that  she  could  not  very  well  have  wept 
there  and  then,  had  she  wished  to  do  so? 


A  SOLDIER'S  DOG 


"Yes,"  he  said.  "I  adore  my  regiment. 
I  love  my  work.  I  have  always  wanted  to 
see  colonial  service." 

"Have  you?  It  is  delightful  to  find 
one's  ambitions  and  desires  satisfied," 
said  Miss  Redmond.  "I  have  always 
longed  to  see  the  desert.  It  must  be  beau- 
tiful. Of  course  you  are  going  to  take 
Pitchoune  ?" 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Sabron,  "that  is  just 
what  I  am  not  going  to  do." 

"What  !"  she  cried.  "You  are  never  go- 
ing to  leave  that  darling  dog  behind  you?" 

"I  must,  unfortunately.  My  superior 
officers  do  not  allow  me  to  take  horses  or 
dogs,  or  even  my  servant." 

"Heavens!"  she  exclaimed.  "What 
brutes  they  are  !  Why,  Pitchoune  will  die 
of  a  broken  heart."  Then  she  said  :  "You 
are  leaving  him  with  your  man  servant?" 

Sabron  shook  his  head. 


g  HIS  LOVE  STORY 

"Brunet  would  not  be  able  to  keep 
fiim." 

"Ah!"  she  breathed.  "He  is  looking 
for  a  home?  Is  he?  If  so,  would  you 
.  .  .  might  /  take  care  of  Pitchoune?" 

The  Frenchman  impulsively  put  out  his 
hand,  and  she  laid  her  own  in  it. 

"You  are  too  good,"  he  murmured. 
"Thank  you.  Pitchoune  will  thank  you." 

He  kissed  her  hand.    That  was  all. 

From  within  the  salon  came  the  noise 
of  voices,  and  the  bow  of  the  viojoncellist 
was  beginning  a  new  concerto.  They 
stood  looking  at  each  other.  No  condi- 
tion could  have  prevented  it  although  the 
Marquise  d'Esclignac  was  rolling  toward 
them  across  the  polished  floor  of  the  mu- 
sic-room. As  though  Sabron  realized 
that  he  might  never  see  this  lovely  young 
woman  again,  probably  never  would  see 


A  SOLDIER'S  DOG 

her,  and  wanted  before  he  left  to  have 
something  made  clear,  he  asked  quickly : 

"Could  you,  Mademoiselle,  in  a  word 
or  two  tell  me  the  meaning  of  the  English 
song  you  sang?" 

She  flushed  and  laughed  slightly. 

"Well,  it  is  not  very  easy  to  put  it  in 
prose,"  she  hesitated.  "Things  sound  so 
differently  in  music  and  poetry;  but  it 
means,"  she  said  in  French,  bravely,  "why, 
it  is  a  sort  of  prayer  that  some  one  you 
love  very  much  should  be  kept  safe  night 
and  day.  That's  about  all.  There  is  a 
little  sadness  in  it,  as  though,"  and  her 
cheeks  glowed,  "as  if  there  was  a  sort  of 
separation.  It  means  ..." 

"Ah!"  breathed  the  officer  deeply,  "I 
understand.  Thank  you." 

And  just  then  Madame  d'Esclignac 
rolled  up  between  them  and  with  an  un- 


>gg<          HIS  LOVE  STORY 


mistakable  satisfaction  presented  to  her 
niece  the  gentleman  she  had  secured. 

"My  dear  Julia,  my  godson,  the  Due 
de  Tremont."  And  Sabron  bowed  to  both 
the  ladies,  to  the  duke,  and  went  away. 

This  was  the  picture  he  might  add  to 
his  collection:  the  older  woman  in  her 
yivid  dress,  Julia  in  her  simpler  gown,  and 
the  titled  Frenchman  bowing  over  her 
hand. 

When  he  went  out  to  the  front  terrace 
Brunet  was  there  with  his  horse,  and 
Pitchoune  was  there  as  well,  stiffly  wait- 
ing at  attention. 

"Brunet,"  said  the  officer  to  his  man, 
"will  you  take  Pitchoune  around  to  the 
servants'  quarters  and  give  him  to  Miss 
Redmond's  maid?  I  am  going  to  leave 
him  here." 

"Good,  mon  Capitaine"  said  the  ordon- 
nance,  and  whistled  to  the  dog. 
48 


A  SOLDIER'S  DOG 


Pitchoune  sprang  toward  his  master 
with  a  short  sharp  bark.  What  he  under- 
stood would  be  hard  to  say,  but  all  that 
he  wanted  to  do  was  to  remain  with  Sa- 
bron.  Sabron  bent  down  and  stroked 
him. 

"Go,  my  friend,  with  Brunet.  Go,  mon 
vieux,  go,"  he  commanded  sternly,  and 
the  little  dog,  trained  to  obedience  as  a 
soldier's  dog  should  be,  trotted  reluctantly 
at  the  heels  of  the  ordonnance,  and  the 
soldier  threw  his  leg  over  the  saddle  and 
rode  away.  He  rode  regardless  of  any- 
thing but  the  fact  that  he  was  going. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HOMESICK 

PITCHOUNE  was  a  soldier's  dog, 
born  in  a  stable,  of  a  mother  who  had 
been  dear  to  the  canteen.     Michette  had 
been  une  vrai  vivandiere,  a  real  daughter 
of  the  regiment. 

Pitchoune  was  a  worthy  son.  He 
adored  the  drums  and  trumpets.  He 
adored  the  fife.  He  adored  the  drills 
which  he  was  accustomed  to  watch  from 
a  respectable  distance.  He  liked  Brunet, 
and  the  word  had  not  yet  been  discov- 
ered which  would  express  how  he  felt  to- 
ward Monsieur  le  Capitaine,  his  master. 
His  muscular  little  form  expressed  it  in 
every  fiber.  His  brown  eyes  looked  it  un- 

50. 


HOMESICK 

W 

8-^ 

til  their  pathos  might  have  melted  a  heart 
of  iron. 

There  was  nothing  picturesque  to 
Pitchoune  in  the  Chateau  d'Esclignac 
or  in  the  charming  room  to  which  he  was 
brought.  The  little  dog  took  a  flying 
tour  around  it,  over  sofas  and  chairs,  land- 
ing on  the  window-seat,  where  he 
crouched.  He  was  not  wicked,  but  he 
was  perfectly  miserable,  and  the  lovely 
wiles  of  Julia  Redmond  and  her  endear- 
ments left  him  unmoved.  He  refused 
meat  and  drink,  was  indifferent  to  the 
views  from  the  window,  to  the  beautiful 
view  of  King  Rene's  castle,  to  the  tan- 
talizing cat  sunning  herself  against  the 
wall.  He  flew  about  like  mad,  leaving  de- 
struction in  his  wake,  tugged  at  the  leash 
when  they  took  him  out  for  exercise.  In 
short,  Pitchoune  was  a  homesick,  lovesick 
little  dog,  and  thereby  endeared  himself 


~™ 

f       HIS  LOVE  STORY 


more  than  ever  to  his  new  mistress.  She 
tied  a  ribbon  around  his  neck,  which  he 
promptly  chewed  and  scratched  off.  She 
tried  to  feed  him  with  her  own  fair  hands  ; 
he  held  his  head  high,  looked  bored  and 
grew  thin  in  the  flanks. 

"I  thing  Captain  de  Sabron's  little  dog 
is  going  to  die,  ma  tante,"  she  told  her 
aunt. 

"Fiddlesticks,  my  dear  Julia  !  Keep  him 
tied  up  until  he  is  accustomed  to  the  place. 
It  won't  hurt  him  to  fast  ;  he  will  eat  when 
he  is  hungry.  I  have  a  note  from  Robert. 
He  has  not  gone  to  Monte  Carlo." 

"Ah!"  breathed  Miss  Redmond  indif- 
ferently. 

She  slowly  went  over  to  her  piano  and 
played  a  few  measures  of  music  that 
were  a  torture  to  Pitchoune,  who  found 
these  ladylike  performances  in  strong  con- 
trast to  drums  and  trumpets.  He  felt 

52 


HOMESICK 


himself  as  a  soldier  degraded  and  could 
not  understand  why  he  should  be  rele- 
gated to  a  salon  and  to  the  mild  society 
pf  two  ladies  who  did  not  even  know  how 
to  pull  his  ears  or  roll  him  over  on  the 
rug  with  their  riding  boots  and  spurs.  He 
sat  against  the  window  as  was  his  habit, 
looking,  watching,  yearning. 

"Fous  avez  tort,  ma  chere"  said  her 
aunt,  who  was  working  something  less 
than  a  thousand  flowers  on  her  tapestry. 
"The  chance  to  be  a  princess  and  a  Tre- 
mont  does  not  come  twice  in  a  young 
girl's  life,  and  you  know  you  have  only 
to  be  reasonable,  Julia." 

Miss  Redmond's  fingers  wandered, 
magnetically  drawn  by  her  thoughts,  into 
a  song  which  she  played  softly  through. 
Pitchoune  heard  and  turned  his  beautiful 
head  and  his  soft  eyes  to  her.  He  knew 
that  tune.  Neither  drums  nor  trumpets 

53 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


had  played  it  but  there  was  no  doubt 
about  its  being  fit  for  soldiers.  He  had 
heard  his  master  sing  it,  hum  it,  many 
times.  It  had  soothed  his  nerves  when 
he  was  a  sick  puppy  and  it  went  with 
many  things  of  the  intimate  life  with  his 
master.  He  remembered  it  when  he  had 
dozed  by  the  fire  and  dreamed  of  chasing 
cats  and  barking  at  Brunet  and  being  a 
faithful  dog  all  around;  he  heard  again 
a  beloved  voice  hum  it  to  him.  Pitchoune 
whined  and  softly  jumped  down  from  his 
seat.  He  put  his  forepaws  on  Miss  Red- 
mond's lap.  She  stopped  and  caressed 
him,  and  he  licked  her  hand. 

"That  is  the  first  time  I  have  seen  that 
dog  show  a  spark  of  human  gratitude, 
Julia,  He  is  probably  begging  you  to 
open  the  door  and  let  him  take  a  run." 

Indeed  Pitchoune  did  go  to  the  door 
and  waited  appealingly. 
54 


HOMESICK 


"I  think  you  might  trust  him  out.  I 
think  he  is  tamed,"  said  the  Marquise 
d'Esclignac.  "He  is  a  real  little  savage." 

Miss  Redmond  opened  the  door  and 
Pitchoune  shot  out.  She  watched  him 
tear  like  mad  across  the  terrace,  and 
scuttle  into  the  woods,  as  she  thought, 
after  a  rabbit.  He  was  the  color  of  the 
fallen  leaves  and  she  lost  sight  of  him  in 
the  brown  and  golden  brush. 


55 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    FORTUNES    OF    WAR 

SABRON'S  departure  had  been  de- 
layed on  account  of  a  strike  at  the 
dockyards  of  Marseilles.  He  left  Taras- 
con  one  lovely  day  toward  the  end  of  Jan- 
uary and  the  old  town  with  its  sweetness 
and  its  sorrow,  fell  behind,  as  he  rolled 
away  to  brighter  suns.  A  friend  from 
Paris  took  him  to  the  port  in  his  motor 
and  there  Sabron  waited  some  forty-eight 
hours  before  he  set  sail.  His  boat  lay  out 
on  the  azure  water,  the  brown  rocks  of  the 
coast  behind  it.  There  was  not  a  ripple 
on  the  sea.  There  was  not  a  breeze  to  stir 
as  he  took  the  tug  which  was  to  convey 
him.  He  was  inclined  to  dip  his  ringers 
in  the  indigo  ocean,  sure  that  he  would 
56 


FORTUNES  OF  WAR 


find  them  blue.  He  climbed  up  the  lad- 
der alongside  of  the  vessel,  was  welcomed 
by  the  captain,  who  knew  him,  and  turned 
to  go  below,  for  he  had  been  suffering 
from  an  attack  of  fever  which  now  and 
then  laid  hold  of  him,  ever  since  his  cam- 
paign in  Morocco. 

Therefore,  as  he  went  into  his  cabin, 
which  he  did  not  leave  until  the  steamer 
touched  Algiers,  he  failed  to  see  the  bag- 
gage tender  pull  up  and  failed  to  see  a 
sailor  climb  to  the  deck  with  a  wet  be- 
draggled thing  in  his  hand  that  looked 
like  an  old  fur  cap  except  that  it  wriggled 
and  was  alive. 

"This,  mow  commandant/'  said  the 
sailor  to  the  captain,  "is  the  pluckiest  lit- 
tle beast  I  ever  saw." 

He  dropped  a  small  terrier  on  the  declc, 
who  proceeded  to  shake  himself  vigorous- 
ly and  bark  with  apparent  delight. 

57 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


"No  sooner  had  we  pushed  out  from 
the  quay  than  this  little  beggar  sprang 
from  the  pier  and  began  to  swim  after  us. 
He  was  so  funny  that  we  let  him  swim 
for  a  bit  and  then  we  hauled  him  in.  It 
is  evidently  a  mascot,  mon  commandant, 
evidently  a  sailor  dog  who  has  run  away 
to  sea." 

The  captain  looked  with  interest  at  Pit- 
choune,  who  engaged  himself  in  making 
his  toilet  and  biting  after  a  flea  or  two 
which  had  not  been  drowned. 

"We  sailors,"  said  the  man  saluting, 
"would  like  to  keep  him  for  luck,  mon 
commandant" 

"Take  him  down  then,"  his  superior 
officer  ordered,  "and  don't  let  him  up 
among  the  passengers." 

•  •••»•• 

It  was  a  rough  voyage.  Sabron  passed 
his  time  saying  good-by  to  France  and 

58 


FORTUNES  OE  WAR 


trying  to  keep  his  mind  away  from 
the  Chateau  d'Esclignac,  which  persisted 
in  haunting  his  uneasy  slumber.  In  a 
blaze  of  sunlight,  Algiers,  the  white 
city,  shone  upon  them  on  the  morning 
of  the  third  day  and  Sabron  tried  to 
take  a  more  cheerful  view  of  a  soldier's 
life  and  fortunes. 

He  was  a  soldierly  figure  and  a  hand- 
some one  as  he  walked  down  the  gang- 
plank to  the  shore  to  be  welcomed  by 
fellow  officers  who  were  eager  to  see  him, 
and  presently  was  lost  in  the  little  crowd 
that  streamed  away  from  the  docks  into 
the  white  city. 


59 

'of 


CHAPTER  X 

TOGETHER   AGAIN 

THAT  night  after  dinner  and  a 
cigarette,  he  strode  into  the  streets 
to  distract  his  mind  with  the  sight  of  the 
oriental  city  and  to  fill  his  ears  with  the 
eager  cries  of  the  crowd.  The  lamps  flick- 
ered. The  sky  overhead  was  as  blue 
nearly  as  in  daytime.  He  walked  leisure- 
ly toward  the  native  quarter,  jostled,  as 
he  passed,  by  men  in  their  brilliant  cos- 
tumes and  by  a  veiled  woman  or  two. 

He  stopped  indifferently  before  a  little 
cafe,  his  eyes  on  a  Turkish  bazaar  where 
velvets  and  scarfs  were  being  sold  at 
double  their  worth  under  the  light  of  a 
flaming  yellow  lamp.  As  he  stood  so,  his 
back  to  the  cafe  where  a  number  of  the 


TOGETHER  AGAIN 


ship's  crew  were  drinking,  he  heard  a 
short  sharp  sound  that  had  a  sweet  fa- 
miliarity about  it  and  whose  individuality 
made  him  start  with  surprise.  He  could 
not  believe  his  ears.  He  heard  the  bark 
again  and  then  he  was  sprung  upon  by  a 
little  body  that  ran  out  from  between  the 
legs  of  a  sailor  who  sat  drinking  his  coffee 
and  liquor. 

"Gracious  heavens !"  exclaimed  Sabron, 
thinking  that  he  must  be  the  victim  of  a 
hashish  dream.  "Pitchoune!" 

The  dog  fawned  on  him  and  whined, 
crouched  at  his  feet  whining — like  a  child. 
Sabron  bent  and  fondled  him.  The  sailor 
from  the  table  called  the  dog  imperative- 
ly, but  Pitchoune  would  have  died  at  his 
master's  feet  rather  than  return.  If  his 
throat  could  have  uttered  words  he  would 
have  spoken,  but  his  eyes  spoke.  They 
looked  as  though  they  were  tearful. 
61 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


"Pitchoune,  wow  vieuxl  No,  it  can't 
be  Pitchoune.  But  it  w  Pitchoune  I"  And 
Sabron  took  him  up  in  his  arms.  The 
dog  tried  to  lick  his  face. 

"Voyons"  said  the  officer  to  the  ma- 
rine, who  came  rolling  over  to  them, 
"where  did  you  get  this  dog?" 

The  young  man's  voice  was  imperative 
and  he  fixed  stern  eyes  on  the  sailor,  who 
pulled  his  forelock  and  explained. 

"He  was  following  me,"  said  Sabron, 
not  without  a  slight  catch  in  his  voice. 
The  body  pf  Pitchoune  quivered  under 
his  arm.  "He  is  my  dog.  I  think  his 
manner  proves  it  If  you  have  grown  fond 
of  him  I  am  sorry  for  you,  but  I  think 
you  will  have  to  give  him  up." 

Sabron  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and 
turned  a  little  away  to  be  free  of  the  na- 
tive crowd  that,  chattering  and  grinning, 
amused  and  curious  and  eager  to  partici- 
62 


TOGETHER  AGAIN 


pate  in  any  distribution  of  coin,  was  gath- 
ering around  him.  He  found  two  gold 
pieces  which  he  put  into  the  hand  of  the 
sailor. 

"Thank  you  for  taking  care  of  him.  I 
am  at  the  Royal  Hotel."  He  nodded,  and 
with  Pitchoune  under  his  arm  pushed  his 
way  through  the  crowd  and  out  of  the 
bazaar. 

He  could  not  interview  the  dog  him- 
self, although  he  listened,  amused,  to 
Pitchoune's  own  manner  of  speech.  He 
spent  the  latter  part  of  the  evening  com- 
posing a  letter  to  the  minister  of  war,  and 
although  it  was  short,  it  must  have  pos- 
sessed certain  evident  and  telling  qualities, 
for  before  he  left  Algiers  proper  for  the 
desert,  Sabron  received  a  telegram  much 
to  the  point: 

"You  may  keep  your  dog.  I  congratu- 
late you  on  such  a  faithful  companion." 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  SACRED  TRUST 

HIS  eyes  had  grown  accustomed  to 
the  glare  of  the  beautiful  sands, 
but  his  sense  of  beauty  was  never  satis- 
fied with  looking  at  the  desert  picture  and 
drinking  in  the  glory  and  the  loveliness 
of  the  melancholy  waste.  Standing  in 
the  door  of  his  tent  in  fatigue  uniform, 
he  said  to  Pitchoune : 

"I  could  be  perfectly  happy  here  if  I 
were  not  alone." 

Pitchoune  barked.  He  had  not  grown 
accustomed  to  the  desert.  He  hated  it. 
It  slipped  away  from  under  his  little 
feet;  he  could  not  run  on  it  with  any 
comfort.  He  spent  his  days  idly  in  his 
master's  tent  or  royally  perched  on  a 

64 


A  SACRED  TRUST 


camel,  crouching  close  to  Sabron's  man 
servant  when  they  went  on  caravan  ex- 
plorations. 

"Yes,"  said  Sabron,  "if  I  were  not 
alone.  I  don't  mean  you,  mon  vieux.  You 
are  a  great  deal,  but  you  really  don't 
count,  you  know." 

Before  his  eyes  the  sands  were  as  pink 
as  countless  rose  leaves.  To  Sabron  they 
were  as  fragrant  as  flowers.  The  peculiar 
incense-like  odor  that  hovers  above  the 
desert  when  the  sun  declines  was  to  him 
the  most  delicious  thing  he  had  ever  in- 
haled. All  the  west  was  as  red  as  fire. 
The  day  had  been  hot  and  there  came  up 
the  cool  breeze  that  would  give  them  a 
delicious  night.  Overhead,  one  by  one, 
he  watched  the  blossoming  out  of  the 
great  stars  ;  each  one  hung  above  his  lone- 
ly tent  like  a  bridal  flower  in  a  veil  of 
blue.  On  all  sides,  like  white  petals  on 
65 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


the  desert  face,  were  the  tents  of  his  men 
and  his  officers,  and  from  the  encamp- 
ment came  the  hum  of  military  life,  yet 
the  silence  to  him  was  profound.  He  had 
only  to  order  his  stallion  saddled  and  to 
ride  away  for  a  little  distance  in  order  to 
be  alone  with  the  absolute  stillness. 

This  he  often  did  and  took  his  thoughts 
with  him  and  came  back  to  his  tent  more 
conscious  of  his  solitude  every  night  of 
his  life. 

There  had  been  much  looting  of  cara- 
vans in  the  region  by  brigands,  and  his 
business  was  that  of  sentinel  for  the  com- 
merce of  the  plains.  Thieving  and  rapa- 
cious tribes  were  under  his  eye  and  his 
care.  To-night,  as  he  stood  looking  to- 
ward the  west  into  the  glow,  shading  his 
eyes  with  his  hand,  he  saw  coming  toward 
them  what  he  knew  to  be  a  caravan  from 
Algiers.  His  ordonnance  was  a  native 
66 


A  SACRED  TRUST 


soldier,  one  of  the  desert  tribes,  black  as 
ink,  and  scarcely  more  child-like  than 
Brunet  and  presumably  as  devoted. 

"Mustapha,"  Sabron  ordered,  "fetch  me 
out  a  lounge  chair."  He  spoke  in  French 
and  pointed,  for  the  man  understood  im- 
perfectly and  Sabron  did  not  yet  speak 
Arabic. 

He  threw  himself  down,  lighted  a  fresh 
cigarette,  dragged  Pitchoune  by  the  nape 
of  his  neck  up  to  his  lap,  and  the  two  sat 
watching  the  caravan  slowly  grow  into 
individuals  of  camels  and  riders  and  final- 
ly mass  itself  in  shadow  within  some  four 
or  five  hundred  yards  of  the  encampment. 

The  sentinels  and  the  soldiers  began  to 
gather  and  Sabron  saw  a  single  footman 
making  his  way  toward  the  camp. 

"Go,"  he  said  to  Mustapha,  "and  see 
what  message  the  fellow  brings  to  the 
regiment." 

67 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 

Mustapha  went,  and  after  a  little  re- 
turned, followed  by  the  man  himself,  a 
black  -  bearded,  half  -  naked  Bedouin, 
swathed  in  dust-colored  burnoose  and  car- 
rying a  bag. 

He  bowed  to  Captain  de  Sabron  and 
extended  the  leather  bag.  On  the  outside 
of  the  leather  there  was  a  ticket  pasted, 
which  read: 

"The  Post  for  the Squadron 

of  Cavalry — " 

Sabron  added  mentally: 

" — wherever  it  may  happen  to  *be!" 

He  ordered  bakshish  given  to  the  man 
and  sent  him  off.  Then  he  opened  the 
French  mail.  He  was  not  more  than  three 
hundred  miles  from  Algiers.  It  had  taken 
him  a  long  time  to  work  down  to  Dirbal, 
however,  and  they  had  had  some  hard- 
ships. He  felt  a  million  miles  away.  The 
look  of  the  primitive  mail-bag  and  the 
68 


®oO         A  SACRED  TRUST 


knowledge  of  how  far  it  had  traveled  to 
find  the  people  to  whom  these  letters  were 
addressed  made  his  hands  reverent  as  he 
unfastened  the  sealed  labels.  He  looked 
the  letters  through,  returned  the  bag  to 
Mustapha  and  sent  him  off  to  distribute 
the  post. 

Then,  for  the  light  was  bad,  brilliant 
though  the  night  might  be,  he  went  into 
his  tent  with  his  own  mail.  On  his  dress- 
ing-table was  a  small  illumination  consist- 
ing of  a  fat  candle  set  in  a  glass  case.  The 
mosquitoes  and  flies  were  thick  around  it. 
Pitchoune  followed  him  and  lay  down 
on  a  rush  mat  by  the  side  of  Sabrpn's 
military  bed,  while  the  soldier  read  his 
letter. 

"Monsieur  :  —  • 

"I  regret  more  than  ever  that  I  can  not 
write  your  language  perfectly.  But  even 
in  my  own  I  could  not  find  any  word 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


to  express  how  badly  I  feel  over  some- 
thing which  has  happened. 

"I  took  the  best  of  care  of  Pitchoune. 
I  thought  I  did,  but  I  could  not  make  him1 
happy.  He  mourned  terribly.  He  re- 
fused to  eat,  and  one  day  I  was  so  care- 
less as  to  open  the  door  for  him  and  we 
have  never  seen  him  since.  As  far  as  I 
know  he  has  not  been  found.  Your  man, 
Brunet,  comes  sometimes  to  see  my  maid, 
and  he  thinks  he  has  been  hurt  and  died 
in  the  woods." 

Sabron  glanced  over  to  the  mat  where 
Pitchoune,  stretched  on  his  side,  his  fore- 
legs wide,  was  breathing  tranquilly  in  the 
heat. 

"We  have  heard  rumors  of  a  little  dog 
who  was  seen  running  along  the  high- 
way, miles  from  Tarascon,  but  of  course 
that  could  not  have  been  Pitchoune." 

Sabron  nodded.  "It  was,  however,  mon 
brave/'  he  said  to  the  terrier. 

"Not  but  what  I  think  his  little  heart 
was  brave  enough  and  valiant  enough  tc 


A  SACRED  TRUST 


have  followed  you,  but  no  dog  could  go 
so  far  without  a  better  scent" 

Sabron  said:  "It  is  one  of  the  regrets 
of  my  life  that  you  can  not  tell  us  about 
it.  How  did  you  get  the  scent  ?  How  did 
you  follow  me  ?"  Pitchoune  did  not  stir, 
and  Sabrpn's  eyes  returned  to  the  page, 

"I  do  not  think  you  will  ever  forgive 
us.  You  left  us  a  trust  and  we  did  not 
guard  it." 

He  put  the  letter  down  a  moment, 
brushed  some  of  the  flies  away  from  the 
candle  and  made  the  wick  brighter.  Mus- 
tapha  came  in,  black  as  ebony,  his  woolly 
head  bare.  *  He  stood  as  stiff  as  a  ram- 
rod and  as  black.  In  his  child-like  French 
he  said  : 

"Monsieur  le  Lieutenant  asks  if  Mon- 
sieur le  Capitaine  will  come  to  play  a  game 
of  carte  in  the  mess  tent?" 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


"No,"  said  Sabron,  without  turning. 
"Not  to-night."  He  went  on  with  his  let- 
ter: 

"...    a  sacred  trust." 

Half  aloud  he  murmured:  "I  left  a 
very  sacred  trust  at  the  Chateau  d'Es- 
clignac,  Mademoiselle  ;  but  as  no  one  knew 
anything  about  it  there  will  be  no  question 
of  guarding  it,  I  dare  say." 

"  .  .  .  So  I  write  you  this  letter  to 
tell  you  about  darling  Pitchoune.  I  had 
grown  to  love  him  though  he  did  not  like 
me.  I  miss  him  terribly.  .  .  .  My 
aunt  asks  me  to  say  that  she  hopes  you 
had  a  fine  crossing  and  that  you  will  send 
us  a  tiger  skin  ;  but  I  am  sure  there  are  no 
tigers  near  Algiers.  /  say  .  .  ." 

And  Sabron  did  not  know  how  long 
Miss  Redmond's  pen  had  hesitated  in 
writing  the  closing  lines: 

"...  I  say  I  hope  you  will  be  suc- 
cessful and  that  although  nothing  can 


A  SACRED  TRUST 


take  the  place  of  Pitchoune,  you  will  find 
some  one  to  make  the  desert  less  solitary. 
"Sincerely  yours, 

"JULIA  REDMOND." 

When  Sabron  had  read  the  letter  sev- 
eral times  he  kissed  it  fervently  and  put 
it  in  his  pocket  next  his  heart,  f 

"That,"  he  said  to  Pitchoune,  making 
the  dog  an  unusual  confidence,  "that  will 
keep  me  less  lonely.  At  the  same  time  it 
makes  me  more  so.  This  is  a  paradox, 
mon  vieux,  which  you  can  not  under- 
stand." 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  NEWS  FROM  AFRICA 

IT  TOOK  the  better  part  of  three  eve- 
nings to  answer  her  letter,  and  the 
writing  of  it  gave  Sabron  a  vast  amount 
of  pleasure  and  some  tender  sorrow.  It 
made  him  feel  at  once  so  near  to  this 
lovely  woman  and  at  once  so  far  away. 
In  truth  there  is  a  great  difference  be- 
tween a  spahi  on  an  African  desert,  and 
a  young  American  heiress  dreaming  in 
her  chintz-covered  bedroom  in  a  chateau 
in  the  Midi  of  France. 

Notwithstanding,  the  young  American 
heiress  felt  herself  as  much  alone  in  her 
chintz-covered  bedroom  and  as  desolate, 
perhaps  more  so,  than  did  Sabron  in  his 
tent.  Julia  Redmond  felt,  too,  that  she 
74 


fw5?) 

L/o^ovJ 

w"\Ta« 


NEWS  FROM  AFRICA 


was  surrounded  by  people  hostile  to  her 
friend. 

Sabron's  letter  told  her  of  Pitchoune 
and  was  written  as  only  the  hand  of  a 
charming  and  imaginative  Frenchman  can 
write  a  letter.  Also,  his  pent-up  heart  and 
his  reserve  made  what  he  did  say  stronger 
than  if  perhaps  he  could  have  expressed 
it  quite  frankly. 

Julia  Redmond  turned  the  sheets  that 
told  of  Pitchoune's  following  his  master, 
and  colored  with  joy  and  pleasure  as  she 
read.  She  wiped  away  two  tears  at  the 
end,  where  Sabron  said: 

"Think  of  it,  Mademoiselle,  a  little  dog 
following  his  master  from  peace  and 
plenty,  from  quiet  and  security,  into  the 
desert  !  And  think  what  it  means  to  have 
this  little  friend  !" 

Julia  Redmond  reflected,  was  greatly 
touched  and  loved  Pitchoune  more  than 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


ever.  She  would  have  changed  places 
with  him  gladly.  It  was  an  honor,  a  dis- 
tinction to  share  a  soldier's  exile  and  to 
be  his  companion.  Then  Sabron  wrote, 
in  closing  words  which  she  read  and  re- 
read many,  many  times. 

"Mademoiselle,  in  this  life  many  things 
follow  us;  certain  of  these  follow  us 
whether  we  will  or  not.  Some  things 
we  are  strong  enough  to  forbid,  yet  we 
do  not  forbid  them!  My  little  dog  fol- 
lowed me  ;  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  that. 
It  was  a  question  of  fate.  Something  else 
has  followed  me  as  well.  It  is  not  a  liv- 
ing thing,  and  yet  it  has  all  the  qualities 
of  vitality.  It  is  a  tune.  From  the  mo- 
ment I  left  the  chateau  the  first  night  I 
had  the  joy  of  seeing  you,  Mademoiselle, 
the  tune  you  sang  became  a  companion 
to  me  and  has  followed  me  everywhere 
.  .  .  followed  me  to  my  barracks,  fol- 
lowed me  across  the  sea,  and  here  in  my 
tent  it  keeps  me  company.  I  find  that 
when  I  wake  at  night  the  melody  sings 
to  me  ;  I  find  that  when  I  mount  my  horse 
and  ride  with  my  men,  when  the  desert's 


NEWS  FROM  AFRICA 


sands  are  shifted  by  my  horse's  feet, 
something  sings  in  the  sun  and  in  the 
heat,  something  sings  in  the  chase  and  in 
the  pursuit,  and  in  the  nights,  under  the 
stars,  the  same  air  haunts  me  still. 

"I  am  glad  you  told  me  what  the  words 
mean,  for  I  find  them  beautiful;  the  mu- 
sic in  it  would  not  be  the  same  without 
the  strength  and  form  of  the  words.  So 
it  is,  Mademoiselle,  with  life.  Feelings 
and  sentiments,  passions  and  emotions,  are 
like  music.  They  are  great  and  beautiful ; 
they  follow  us,  they  are  part  of  us,  but 
they  would  be  nothing — music  would  be 
nothing  without  forms  by  which  we  could 
make  it  audible — appealing  not  to  pur 
senses  alone  but  to  our  souls ! 

"And  yet  I  must  close  my  letter  send- 
ing you  only  the  tune ;  the  words  I  can  not 
send  you,  yet  believe  me,  they  form  part 
of  everything  I  do  or  say. 

"To-morrow,  I  understand  from  my 
men,  we  shall  have  some  lively  work  to 
do.  Whatever  that  work  is  you  will  hear 
of  it  through  the  papers.  There  is  a  little 
town  near  here  called  Dirbal,  inhabited 
by  a  poor  tribe  whose  lives  have  been 
made  miserable  by  robbers  and  slave-deal- 
ers. It  is  the  business  of  us  watchers  of 


y^ 

HIS  LOVE  STORY 


the  plains  to  protect  them,  and  I  believe 
we  shall  have  a  lively  skirmish  with  the 
marauders.  There  is  a  congregation  of 
tribes  coming  down  from  the  north.  When 
I  go  out  with  my  people  to-morrow  it 
may  be  into  danger,  for  in  a  wandering 
life  like  this,  who  can  tell  ?  I  do  not  mean 
to  be  either  morbid  or  sentimental.  I  only 
mean  to  be  serious,  Mademoiselle,  and  I 
find  that  I  am  becoming  so  serious  that 
it  will  be  best  to  close. 

"Adieu,  Mademoiselle.  When  you  look 
from  your  window  on  the  Rhone  Valley 
and  see  the  peaceful  fields  of  Tarascon, 
when  you  look  on  your  peaceful  gardens, 
perhaps  your  mind  will  travel  farther 
and  you  will  think  of  Africa.  Do  so  if 
you  can,  and  perhaps  to-night  you  will 
say  the  words  only  of  the  song  before  you 
go  to  sleep. 

"I  am,  Mademoiselle, 

"Faithfully  yours, 
"CHARLES  DE  SABRON." 

There  was  only  one  place  for  a  letter 
such  as  that  to  rest,  and  it  rested  on  that 
gentle  pillow  for  many  days.  It  proved  a 
heavy  weight  against  Julia  Redmond's 

78 


NEWS  FROM  AFRICA 


heart.  She  could,  indeed,  speak  the 
words  of  the  song,  and  did,  and  they  rose 
as  a  nightly  prayer  for  a  soldier  on  the 
plains;  but  she  could  not  keep  her  mind 
and  thoughts  at  rest.  She  was  troubled 
and  unhappy;  she  grew  pale  and  thin; 
she  pined  more  than  Pitchoune  had  pined, 
and  she,  alas !  could  not  break  her  chains 
and  run  away. 

The  Due  de  Tremont  was  a  constant 
guest  at  the  house,  but  he  found  the 
American  heiress  a  very  capricious  and 
uncertain  lady,  and  Madame  d'Esclignac 
was  severe  with  her  niece.  ' 

"My  dear  Julia,"  she  said  to  the  beau- 
tiful girl,  looking  at  her  through  her 
lorgnon;  "I  don't  understand  you.  Every 
one  of  your  family  has  married  a  title. 
We  have  not  thought  that  we  could  do 
better  with  our  money  than  build  up  for- 
tunes already  started ;  than  in  preserving 

79 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


noble  races  and  noble  names.  There  has 
never  been  a  divorce  in  our  family.  I  am 
a  marquise,  your  cousin  is  a  countess,  your 
aunt  is  one  of  the  peeresses  of  England, 
and  as  for  you,  my  dear  .  .  ." 

Miss  Redmond  was  standing  by  the 
piano.  She  had  lifted  the  cover  and  was 
about  to  sit  down  to  play.  She  smiled 
slightly  at  her  aunt,  and  seemed  in  the 
moment  to  be  the  older  woman. 

"There  are  titles  and  titles,  ma  tante: 
the  only  question  is  what  kind  do  you 
value  the  most?" 

"The  highest!"  said  her  aunt  without 

hesitation,  "and  the  Due  de  Tremont  is 

I* 

undoubtedly  one  of  the   most   famous 

partis  in  Europe." 

"He  will  then  find  no  difficulty  in  mar- 
rying," said  the  young  girl,  "and  I  do  not 
wish  to  marry  a  man  I  do  not  love." 

She  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  Her 
80 


NEWS  FROM  AFRICA 

K 

hands  touched  the  keys.  Her  aunt,  who 
was  doing  some  dainty  tapestry,  whose 
fingers  were  creating  silken  flowers  and 
whose  mind  was  busy  with  fancies  and 
ambitions  very  like  the  work  she  created, 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"That  seems  to  be,"  she  said  keenly, 
"the  only  tune  you  know,  Julia." 

"It's  a  pretty  song,  ma  tante." 

"I  remember  that  you  played  and  sang 
it  the  first  night  Sabron  came  to  dinner." 
The  girl  continued  to  finger  among  the 
chords.  "And  since  then  never  a  day 
passes  that  sometime  or  other  you  do 
not  play  it  through." 

"It  has  become  a  sort  of  oraison,  ma 
tante." 

"Sabron,"  said  the  marquise,  "is  a  fine 
young  man,  my  child,  but  he  has  nothing 
but  his  officer's  pay.  Moreover,  a  soldier's 
life  is  a  precarious  pne." 
81 


HIS  LOVE  STORES 

Julia  Redmond  played  the  song  softly 
through. 

The  old  butler  came  in  with  the  eve- 
ning mail  and  the  papers.  The  Marquise 
d'Esclignac,  with  her  embroidery  scis- 
sors, opened  Le  Temps  from  Paris  and 
began  to  read  with  her  usual  interest.  She 
approached  the  little  lamp  on  the  table 
near  her,  unfolded  the  paper  and  looked 
over  at  her  niece,  and  after  a  few  mo- 
ments, said  with  a  slightly  softened  voice : 

"Julia!"  Miss  Redmond  stopped  play- 
ing. "Julia!"  The  girl  rose  from  the 
piano-stpol  and  stood  with  her  hand  on 
the  instrument 

"My  dear  Julia!"  Madame  d'Esclig- 
nac spread  Le  Temps  out  and  put  her 
hand  on  it.  "As  I  said  to  you,  my  child, 
the  life  of  a  soldier  is  a  precarious  one." 

"Ma  tante"  breathed  Miss  Redmond 
from  where  she  stood.  "Tell  me  what 
82 


NEWS  FROM  AFRICA 


the  news  is  from  Africa.  I  think  I  know 
what  you  mean." 

She  could  not  trust  herself  to  walk 
across  the  floor,  for  Julia  Redmond  in 
that  moment  of  suspense  found  the  room 
swimming. 

"There  has  been  an  engagement,"  said 
the  marquise  gently,  for  in  spite  of  her 
ambitions  she  loved  her  niece.  "There 
has  been  an  engagement,  Julia,  at  Dirbal." 
She  lifted  the  newspaper  and  held  it  be- 
fore her  face  and  read : 

"There  has  been  some  hard  fighting 
in  the  desert,  around  about  Dirbal.  The 
troops  commanded  by  Captain  de  Sabron 
were  routed  by  the  natives  at  noon  on 
Thursday.  They  did  not  rally  and  were 
forced  to  retreat.  There  was  a  great 
loss  of  life  among  the  natives  and  sev- 
eral of  the  regiment  were  also  killed. 
There  has  been  no  late  or  authentic 
news  from  Dirbal,  but  the  last  des- 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


patches  give  the  department  of  war  to 
understand  that  Sabron  himself  is  among 
the  missing." 

The  Marquise  d'Esclignac  slowly  put 
down  the  paper,  and  rose  quickly._  She 
went  to  the  young  girl's  side  and  put  her 
arm  around  her.  Miss  Redmond  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands  : 

"Ma  tante,  ma  tante!"  she  murmured. 

"My  dear  Julia,"  said  the  old  lady, 
"there  is  nothing  more  uncertain  than 
newspaper  reports,  especially  those  that 
come  from  the  African  seat  pf  war.  Sit 
down  here,  my  child." 

The  two  women  sat  together  on  the 
long  piano-stool.  The  marquise  said: 

"I  followed  the  fortunes,  my  dear,  of 
my  husband's  cousin  through  the  engage- 
ment in  Tonkin.  I  know  a  little  what  it 
was."  The  girl  was  immovable.  Her 
aunt  felt  her  rigid  by  her  side.  "I  told 
84 


¥ 

you,"  she  murmured,  "that  a  soldier's  life 
was  a  precarious  one." 

Miss  Redmond  threw  away  all  disguise. 

"Ma  tante,"  she  said  in  a  hard  voice. 
"I  love  him!  You  must  have  known  it 
and  seen  it.  I  love  him!  He  is  becom- 
ing my  life." 

As  the  marquise  looked  at  the  girl's 
face  and  saw  her  trembling  lips  and  her 
wide  eyes,  she  renounced  her  ambitions 
for  Julia  Redmond.  She  renounced  them 
with  a  sigh,  but  she  was  a  woman  of  the 
world,  and  more  than  that  to  a  woman. 
She  remained  for  a  moment  in  silence, 
holding  Julia's  hands. 

She  had  followed  the  campaign  of  her 
husband's  cousin,  a  young  man  with  an 
insignificant  title  whom  she  had  not  mar- 
ried. In  this  moment  she  relived  again 
the  arrival  of  the  evening  papers ;  the  des- 
patches, her  husband's  news  of  his 

TteJP 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


cousin.  As  she  kissed  Julia's  cheeks  a 
moisture  passed  over  her  own  eyes,  which 
for  many  years  had  shed  no  tears. 

"Courage,  my  dear,"  she  implored,  "we 
will  telegraph  at  once  to  the  minister  of 
war  for  news." 

The  girl  drew  a  convulsive  breath  and 
turned,  and  leaning  both  elbows  on  the 
piano  keys — perhaps  in  the  very  notes 
whose  music  in  the  little  song  had  charmed 
Sabron — she  burst  into  tears.  The  mar- 
quise rose  and  passed  out  of  the  room  to 
send  a  man  with  a  despatch  to  Tarascon. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ONE    DOG'S    DAY 

THERE  must  be  a  real  philosophy 
in  all  proverbs.  "Every  dog  has  his 
day"  is  a  significant  one.  It  surely  was  for 
Pitchoune.  He  had  his  day.  It  was  a  glo- 
rious one,  a  terrible  one,  a  memorable  one, 
and  he  played  his  little  part  in  it  He 
awoke  at  the  gray  dawn,  springing  like 
a  flash  from  the  foot  of  Sabron's  bed, 
where  he  lay  asleep,  in  response  to  the 
sound  of  the  reveille,  and  Sabron  sprang 
up  after  him. 

Pitchoune  in  a  few  moments  was  in  the 
center  of  real  disorder.  All  he  knew 
was  that  he  followed  his  master  all  day 
long.  The  dog's  knowledge  did  not  com- 
prehend the  fact  that  not  only  had  the 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


native  village,  of  which  his  master  spoke 
in  his  letter  to  Miss  Redmond,  been  de- 
stroyed, but  that  Sabron's  regiment  itself 
was  menaced  by  a  concerted  and  concen- 
trated attack  from  an  entire  tribe,  led  by 
a  fanatic  as  hotminded  and  as  fierce  as 
the  Mahdi  of  Sudanese  history. 

Pitchoune  followed  at  the  heels  of  his 
master's  horse.  No  one  paid  any  atten- 
tion to  him.  Heaven  knows  why  he  was 
not  trampled  to  death,  but  he  was  not 
No  one  trod  on  him;  no  horse's  hoof  hit 
his  little  wiry  form  that  managed  in  the 
midst  of  carnage  and  death  to  keep  itself 
secure  and  his  hide  whole.  He  smelt  the 
gunpowder,  he  smelt  the  smoke,  sniffed  at 
it,  threw  up  his  pretty  head  and  barked, 
puffed  and  panted,  yelped  and  tore  about 
and  followed.  He  was  not  conscious  of 
anything  but  that  Sabron  was  in  mo- 
tion ;  that  Sabron,  his  beloved  master,  was 
88 


ONE  DOG'S  DAY 

kV 


<r 

in  action  of  some  kind  or  other  and  he, 
a  soldier's  dog,  was  in  action,  too.  He 
howled  at  fierce  dark  faces,  when  he  saw 
them.  He  snarled  at  the  bullets  that 
whistled  around  his  ears  and,  laying  his 
little  ears  back,  he  shook  his  black  muzzle 
in  the  very  grin  of  death. 

Sabron's  horse  was  shot  under  him, 
and  then  Pitchoune  saw  his  master, 
sprang  upon  him,  and  his  feelings  were 
not  hurt  that  no  attention  was  paid  him, 
that  not  even  his  name  was  called,  and  as 
Sabron  struggled  on,  Pitchoune  followed. 
It  was  his  day;  he  was  fighting  the  na- 
tives; he  was  part  of  a  battle;  he  was  a 
soldier's  dog!  Little  by  little  the  creatures 
and  things  around  him  grew  fewer,  the 
smoke  cleared  and  rolled  away,  there  were 
a  few  feet  of  freedom  around  him  in 
which  he  stood  and  barked;  then  he  was 
off  again  close  to  his  master's  heels  and 
89 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


not  tpo  soon.  He  did  not  know  the  blow 
that  struck  Sabron,  but  he  saw  him  fall, 
and  then  there  came  into  his  canine  heart 
some  knowledge  of  the  importance  of  his 
day.  He  had  raced  himself  weary.  Every 
bone  in  his  little  body  ached  with  fatigue. 
Sabron  lay  his  length  on  the  bed  of  a 
dried-up  river,  one  of  those  phantom-like 
channels  of  a  desert  stream  whose  course 
runs  watery  only  certain  times  of  the  year. 
Sabron,  wounded  in  the  abdomen,  lay 
on  his  side.  Pitchoune  smelled  him 
from  head  to  foot,  addressed  himself  to 
his  restoration  in  his  own  way.  He  licked 
his  face  and  hands  and  ears,  sat  sentinel 
at  the  beloved  head  where  the  forehead 
was  covered  with  sweat  and  blood.  He 
barked  feverishly  and  to  his  attentive  ears 
there  came  no  answer  whatsoever,  either 
from  the  wounded  man  in  the  bed  of  the 
African  river  or  from  the  silent  plains. 
90 


ONE  DOG'S  DAY 


Sabron  was  deserted.  He  had  fallen 
and  not  been  missed  and  his  regiment, 
routed  by  the  Arabs,  had  been  driven  into 
retreat.  Finally  the  little  dog,  who  knew 
by  instinct  that  life  remained  in  his  mas- 
ter's body,  set  himself  at  work  vigorously 
to  awaken  a  sign  of  life.  He  attacked 
Sabron's  shoulder  as  though  it  were  a 
prey;  he  worried  him,  barked  in  his  ear, 
struck  him  lightly  with  his  paw,  and  final- 
ly, awakening  to  dreadful  pain,  to  fever 
and  to  isolation,  awakening  perhaps  to  the 
battle  for  life,  to  the  attentions  of  his 
friend,  the  spahi  opened  his  eyes. 

Sabron's  wound  was  serious,  but  his 
body  was  vigorous,  strong  and  healthy, 
and  his  mind  more  so.  There  was  a  film 
over  it  just  now.  He  raised  himself  with 
great  effort,  and  in  a  moment  realized 
where  he  was  and  that  to  linger  there  was 
a  horrible  death.  On  each  side  of  the 

91 


HIS  LOVE  STOR 


river  rose  an  inclined  bank,  not  very  high 
and  thickly  grown  with  mimosa  bush. 
This  meant  to  him  that  beyond  it  and 
probably  within  easy  reach,  there  would 
be  shade  from  the  intense  and  dread- 
ful glare  beating  down  upon  him, 
with  death  in  every  ray.  He  groaned  and 
Pitchoune's  voice  answered  him.  Sabron 
paid  no  attention  to  his  dog,  did  not  even 
call  his  name.  His  mind,  accustomed  to 
quick  decisions  and  to  a  matter-of-fact 
consideration  of  life,  instantly  took  its 
proper  course.  He  must  get  out  of  the 
river  bed  or  die  there,  rot  there. 

What  there  was  before  him  to  do  was 
so  stupendous  an  undertaking  that  it 
made  him  almost  unconscious  of  the  pain 
in  his  loins.  He  could  not  stand,  could 
not  thoroughly  raise  himself;  but  by  great 
and  painful  effort,  bleeding  at  every  move, 
he  could  crawl;  he  did  so,  and  the  sun 
92 


0§0g(  ONE  DOG'S  DAY 


beat  upon  him.  Pitchoune  walked  by  his 
side,  whining,  talking  to  him,  encouraging 
him,  and  the  spahi,  ashen  pale,  his  bright 
gray  uniform  ripped  and  stained,  all  alone 
in  the  desert,  with  death  above  him  and 
death  on  every  hand,  crawled,  dragged, 
hitched  along  out  of  the  river  to  the  bank, 
cheered,  encouraged  by  his  little  dog. 

For  a  drop  of  water  he  would  have 
given  —  oh,  what  had  he  to  give?  For  a 
little  shade,  he  would  have  given  —  about 
all  he  had  to  give  had  been  given  to  his 
duty  in  this  engagement  which  could  never 
bring  him  glory,  or  distinction  or  any  re- 
nown. The  work  of  a  spahi  with  a  na- 
tive regiment  is  not  a  very  glorious  af- 
fair. He  was  simply  an  officer  who  fell 
doing  his  daily  work. 

Pitchoune  barked  and  cried  out  to  him  : 
"Courage!" 

"I  shall  die  here  at  the  foot  of  the  mi- 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


mosa,"  Sabron  thought;  and  his  hands 
hardly  had  the  courage  or  strength  to 
grasp  the  first  bushes  by  which  he  meant 
to  pull  himself  up  on  the  bank.  The  little 
dog  was  close  to  him,  leaping,  springing 
near  him,  and  Sabron  did  not  know  how 
tired  and  thirsty  and  exhausted  his  brave 
little  companion  was,  or  that  perhaps  in 
that  heroic  little  body  there  was  as  much 
of  a  soldier's  soul  as  in  his  own  human 
form. 

The  sun  was  so  hot  that  it  seemed  to 
sing  in  the  bushes.  Its  torrid  fever  struck 
on  his  brow,  struck  on  his  chest  ;  why  did 
it  not  kill  him?  He  was  not  even  de- 
lirious, and  yet  the  bushes  sang  dry  and 
crackling.  What  was  their  melody?  He 
knew  it.  Just  one  melody  haunted  him  al- 
ways, and  now  he  knew  the  words:  they 
were  a  prayer  for  safety. 

"But,"    Sabron   said    aloud,    "it   is   a 

94 


? 


ONE  DOG'S  DAY 


prayer  to  be  said  at  night  and  not  in  the 
afternoon  of  an  African  hell." 

He  began  to  climb;  he  pulled  himself 
along,  leaving  his  track  in  blood. 

He  fainted  twice,  and  the  thick  growth 
held  him  like  the  wicker  of  a  cradle,  and 
before  he  came  to  his  consciousness  the 
sun  was  mercifully  going  down.  He  fin- 
ally reached  the  top  of  the  bank  and  lay 
there  panting.  Not  far  distant  were  the 
bushes  of  rose  and  mimosa  flower,  and 
still  panting,  weaker  and  ever  weaker, 
his  courage  the  only  living  thing  in  him, 
Sabron,  with  Pitchoune  by  his  side, 
dragged  himself  into  healing  hands. 

All  that  night  Sabron  was  delirious; 
his  mind  traveled  far  into  vague  fantastic 
countries,  led  back  again,  ever  gently,  by 
a  tune,  to  safety. 

Every  now  and  then  he  would  realize 
that  he  was  alone  on  the  vast  desert,  des- 

95 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


tined  to  finish  his  existence  here,  to  cease 
being  a  human  creature  and  to  become 
nothing  but  carrion.  Moments  of  con- 
sciousness succeeded  those  of  mental  dis- 
order. Every  now  and  then  he  would  feel 
Pitchoune  close  to  his  arm.  The  dog 
licked  his  hand  and  the  touch  was  grate- 
ful to  the  deserted  officer.  Pitchoune 
licked  his  master's  cheek  and  Sabron  felt 
that  there  was  another  life  beside  his  in 
the  wilderness.  Neither  dog  nor  man 
could  long  exist,  however,  without  food 
or  drink,  and  Sabron  was  growing  mo- 
mentarily weaker. 

The  Frenchman,  though  a  philosopher, 
realized  how  hard  it  was  to  die  unsatis- 
fied in  love,  unsatisfied  in  life,  having  ac- 
complished nothing,  having  wished  many 
things  and  realized  at  an  early  age  only 
death !  Then  this  point  of  view  changed 
and  the  physical  man  was  uppermost. 
96; 


ONE  DOG'S  DAY 


lie  groaned  for  water,  he  groaned  for 
relief  from  pain,  turned  his  head  from 
side  to  side,  and  Pitchoune  whined  softly. 
Sabron  was  not  strong  enough  to  speak 
to  him,  and  their  voices,  of  man  and 
beast,  inarticulate,  mingled  —  both  left  to 
die  in  the  open. 

Then  Sabron  violently  rebelled  and 
cried  out  in  his  soul  against  fate  and  des- 
tiny. He  could  have  cursed  the  day  he 
was  born.  Keenly  desirous  to  live,  to 
make  his  mark  and  to  win  everything  a 
man  values,  why  should  he  be  picked  and 
chosen  for  this  lonely  pathetic  end? 
Moreover,  he  did  not  wish  to  suffer  like 
this,  to  lose  his  grasp  on  life,  to  go  on 
into  wilder  delirium  and  to  die  !  He  knew 
enough  of  injuries  to  feel  sure  that  his 
wound  alone  could  not  kill  him.  When 
he  had  first  dragged  himself  into  the  shade 
he  had  fainted,  and  when  he  came  to  him- 

97 


3B&*5*** 

tcwvi         ms  LOVE  STORY 


self  he  might  have  stanched  his  blood. 
His  wound  was  hardly  bleeding  now.  It 
had  already  died!  Fatigue  and  thirst, 
fever  would  finish  him,  not  his  hurt.  He 
was  too  young  to  die. 

With  great  effort  he  raised  himself  on 
his  arm  and  scanned  the  desert  stretching 
on  all  sides  like  a  rosy  sea.  Along  the 
river  bank  the  pale  and  delicate  blossom 
and  leaf  of  the  mimosa  lay  like  a  bluish 
veil,  and  the  smell  of  the  evening  and  the 
smell  o'f  the  mimosa  flower  and  the  per- 
fumes of  the  weeds  came  to  him,  aromatic 
and  sweet.  Above  his  head  the  blue  sky 
was  ablaze  with  stars  and  directly  over 
him  the  evening  star  hung  like  a  crystal 
lamp.  But  there  was  no  beauty  in  it  for 
the  wounded  officer  who  looked  in  vain 
to  the  dark  shadows  on  the  desert  that 
might  mean  approaching  human  life.  It 
98 


ONE  DOG'S  DAY 


would  be  better  to  die  as  he  was  dying, 
than  to  be  found  by  the  enemy  ! 

The  sea  of  waste  rolled  unbroken  as  far 
as  his  fading  eyes  could  reach.  He  sank 
back  with  a  sigh,  not  to  rise  again,  and 
closed  his  eyes  and  waited.  He  slept  a 
short,  restless,  feverish  sleep,  and  in  it 
dreams  chased  one  another  like  those 
evoked  by  a  narcotic,  but  out  of  them, 
over  and  over  again  came  the  picture  of 
Julia  Redmond,  and  she  sang  to  him  the 
song  whose  words  were  a  prayer  for  the 
safety  of  a  loved  one  during  the  night. 

From  that  romantic  melody  there 
seemed  to  rise  more  solemn  ones.  He 
heard  the  rolling  of  the  organ  in  the 
cathedral  in  his  native  town,  for  he  came 
from  Rouen  originally,  where  there  is  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  cathedrals  in  the 
world.  The  music  rolled  and  rolled  and 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 

*sgg33> 

passed  over  the  desert's  face.  It  seemed 
to  lift  his  spirit  and  to  cradle  it.  Then  he 
breathed  his  prayers, — they  took  form, 
and  in  his  sleep  he  repeated  the  Ave  Maria 
and  the  Paternoster,  and  the  words 
rolled  and  rolled  over  the  desert's  face 
and  the  supplication  seemed  to  his  fever- 
ish mind  to  mingle  with  the  stars. 

A  sort  of  midnight  dew  fell  upon  him : 
so  at  least  he  thought,  and  it  seemed  to 
him  a  heavenly  dew  and  to  cover  him  like 
a  benignant  rain.  He  grew  cooler.  He 
prayed  again,  and  with  his  words  there 
came  to  the  young  man  an  ineffable  sense 
of  peace.  He  pillowed  his  fading 
thoughts  upon  it;  he  pillowed  his  aching 
mind  upon  it  and  his  body,  too,  and  the 
pain  of  his  wound  and  he  thought  aloud, 
with  only  the  night  airs  to  hear  him,  in 
broken  sentences:  "If  this  is  death  it  is 
not  so  bad.  One  should  rather  be  afraid 


ONE  DOG'S  DAY 


of  life.  This  is  not  difficult,  if  I  should 
ever  get  out  of  here  I  shall  not  regret  this 
night." 

Toward  morning  he  grew  calmer,  he 
turned  to  speak  to  his  little  companion. 
In  his  troubled  thoughts  he  had  forgot- 
ten Pitchoune. 

Sabron  faintly  called  him.  There  was 
no  response.  Then  the  soldier  listened  in 
silence.  It  was  absolutely  unbroken.  Not 
even  the  call  of  a  night-bird — not  even 
the  cry  of  a  hyena, — nothing  came  to  him 
but  the  inarticulate  voice  of  the  desert. 
Great  and  solemn  awe  crept  up  to  him, 
crept  up  to  him  like  a  spirit  and  sat  down 
by  his  side.  He  felt  his  hands  grow  cold, 
and  his  feet  grow  cold.  Now,  unable  to 
speak  aloud,  there  passed  through  his 
mind  that  this,  indeed,  was  death,  deser- 
tion absolute  in  the  heart  of  the  plains. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AN    AMERICAN    GIRL 

THE  Marquise  d'Esclignac  saw  that 
she  had  to  reckon  with  an  Amer- 
ican girl.  Those  who  know  these  girls 
know  what  their  temper  and  mettle  are, 
and  that  they  are  capable  of  the  finest 
reverberations. 

Julia  Redmond  was  very  young.  Other- 
wise she  would  never  have  let  Sabron  go 
without  one  sign  that  she  was  not  indiffer- 
ent to  him,  and  that  she  was  rather  bored 
with  the  idea  of  titles  and  fortunes.  But 
she  adored  her  aunt  and  saw,  moreover, 
something  else  than  ribbons  and  velvets  in 
the  make-up  of  the  aunt.  She  saw  deeper 
than  the  polish  that  a  long  Parisian  life- 
time had  overlaid,  and  she  loved  what  she 


AN  AMERICAN  GIRL 


saw.  She  respected  her  aunt,  and  know- 
ing the  older  lady's  point  of  view,  had 
been  timid  and  hesitating  until  now. 

Now  the  American  girl  woke  up,  or 
rather  asserted  herself. 

"My  dear  Julia,"  said  the  Marquise 
d'Esclignac,  "are  you  sure  that  all  the 
tinned  things,  the  cocoa,  and  so  forth,  are 
on  board  ?  I  did  not  see  that  box." 

"Ma  tante"  returned  her  niece  from 
her  steamer  chair,  "it's  the  only  piece  of 
luggage  I  am  sure  about." 

At  this  response  her  aunt  suffered  a 
slight  qualm  for  the  fate  of  the  rest  of 
her  luggage,  and  from  her  own  chair  in 
the  shady  part  of  the  deck  glanced 
toward  her  niece,  whose  eyes  were  on  her 
book. 

"What  a  practical  girl  she  is," 
thought  the  Marquise  d'Esclignac.  "She 
seems  ten  years  older  than  I.  She  is  cut 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 

out  to  be  the  wife  of  a  poor  man.  It  is 
a  pity  she  should  have  a  fortune.  Julia 
would  have  been  charming  as  love  in  a 
cottage,  whereas  I  ..." 

She  remembered  her  hotel  on  the  Pare 
Monceau,  her  chateau  by  the  Rhone,  her 
villa  at  Biarritz — and  sighed.  She  had 
not  always  been  the  Marquise  d'Esclig- 
nac;  she  had  been  an  American  girl  first 
and  remembered  that  her  maiden  name 
had  been  De  Puyster  and  that  she  had 
come  from  Schenectady  originally.  But 
for  many  years  she  had  forgotten  these 
things.  Near  to  Julia  Redmond  these 
last  few  weeks  all  but  courage  and  sim- 
plicity had  seemed  to  have  tarnish  on  its 
wings. 

Sabron  had  not  been  found. 

It  was  a  curious  fact,  and  one  that 
transpires  now  and  then  in  the  history  of 
104 


AN  AMERICAN  GIRL 


desert  wars — the  man  is  lost.  The  cap- 
tain of  the  cavalry  was  missing,  and  the 
only  news  of  him  was  that  he  had  fallen 
in  an  engagement  and  that  his  body  had 
never  been  recovered.  Several  sorties 
had  been  made  to  find  him;  the  war  de- 
partment had  done  all  that  it  could;  he 
had  disappeared  from  the  face  of  the 
desert  and  even  his  bones  could  not  be 
found. 

From  the  moment  that  Julia  Redmond 
had  confessed  her  love  for  the  French- 
man, a  courage  had  been  born  in  her 
which  never  faltered,  and  her  aunt  seemed 
to  have  been  infected  by  it.  The  mar- 
quise grew  sentimental,  found  out  that 
she  was  more  docile  and  impressionable 
than  she  had  believed  herself  to  be,  and 
the  veneer  and  etiquette  (no  doubt  never 
a  very  real  part  of  her)  became  less  im- 

105 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 

portant  than  other  things.  During  the 
last  few  weeks  she  had  been  more  a  De 
Puyster  from  Schenectady  than  the  Mar- 
quise d'Esclignac. 

"Ma  tante,"  Julia  Redmond  had  said 
to  her  when  the  last  telegram  was  brought 
in  to  the  Chateau  d'Esclignac,  "I  shall 
leave  for  Africa  to-morrow." 

"My  dear  Julia!" 

"He  is  alive!  God  will  not  let  him 
die.  Besides,  I  have  prayed.  I  believe  in 
God,  don't  you?" 

"Of  course,  my  dear  Julia." 

"Well,"  said  the  girl,  whose  pale  cheeks 
and  trembling  hands  that  held  the  tele- 
gram made  a  sincere  impression  on  her 
aunt,  "well,  then,  if  you  believe,  why  do 
you  doubt  that  he  is  alive?  Some  one 
must  find  him.  Will  you  tell  Eugene  to 
have  the  motor  here  in  an  hour?  The 
boat  sails  to-morrow,  ma  tante" 
106 


AN  AMERICAN  GIRI 


The  marquise  rolled  her  embroidery 
and  put  it  aside  for  twelve  months.  Her 
fine  hands  looked  capable  as  she  did  so. 

"My  dear  Julia,  a  young  and  handsome 
woman  can  not  follow  like  a  daughter  of 
the  regiment,  after  the  fortunes  of  a  sol- 
dier." 

"But  a  Red  Cross  nurse  can,  ma  tante, 
and  I  have  my  diploma." 

"The  boat  leaving  to-morrow,  my  dear 
Julia,  doesn't  take  passengers." 

"Oh,  ma  tante!  There  will  be  no  other 
boat  for  Algiers,"  she  opened  the  news- 
paper, "until  ...  oh,  heavens!" 

"But  Robert  de  Tremont's  yacht  is  in 
the  harbor." 

Miss  Redmond  looked  at  her  aunt 
speechlessly. 

"I  shall  telegraph  Madame  de  Hausson- 
velle  and  ask  permission  for  you  to  go  in 
that  as  an  auxiliary  of  the  Red  Cross  to 
107 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


Algiers,  or,  rather,  Robert  is  at  Nice.  I 
shall  telegraph  him." 

"Oh,  ma  tante!" 

"He  asked  me  to  make  up  my  own 
party  for  a  cruise  on  the  Mediterranean," 
said  the  Marquise  d'Esclignac  thought- 
fully. 

Miss  Redmond  fetched  the  telegraph 
blank  and  the  pad  from  the  table.  The 
color  began  to  return  to  her  cheeks.  She 
put  from  her  mind  the  idea  that  her  aunt 
had  plans  for  her.  All  ways  were  fair  in 
the  present  situation. 

The  Marquise  d'Esclignac  wrote  her 
despatch,  a  very  long  one,  slowly.  She 
said  to  her  servant : 

"Call  up  the  Villa  des  Perroquets  at 
Nice.  I  wish  to  speak  with  the  Due  de 
Tremont."  She  then  drew  her  niece  very 
gently  to  her  side,  looking  up  at  her  as  a 
mother  might  have  looked.  "Darling 
1 08 


0oO       AN  AMERICAN  GIRL 


Julia,  Monsieur  de  Sabron  has  never  told 
you  that  he  loved  you?" 

Julia  shook  her  head. 

"Not  in  words,  ma  tante." 

There  was  a  silence,  and  then  Julia 
Redmond  said  : 

"I  only  want  to  assure  myself  that  he 
is  safe,  that  he  lives.  I  only  wish  to 
know  his  fate." 

"But  if  you  go  to  him  like  this,  ma 
chcre,  he  will  think  you  love  him.  He 
must  marry  you!  You  are  making  a 
serious  declaration." 

"Ah,"  breathed  the  girl  from  between 
trembling  lips,  "don't  go  on.  I  shall  be 
shown  the  way." 

The  Marquise  d'Esclignac  then  said, 
musing: 

"I  shall  telegraph  to  England  for  pro- 
visions. Food  is  vile  in  Algiers.  Also,  Me- 
lanie  must  get  out  our  summer  clothes." 
109 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


"Ma  tante!"  said  Julia  Redmond,  "our 
summer  clothes  ?" 

"Did  you  think  you  were  going  alone, 
my  dear  Julia !" 

She  had  been  so  thoroughly  the  Ameri- 
can girl  that  she  had  thought  of  nothing 
but  going.  She  threw  her  arms  around 
her  aunt's  neck  with  an  abandon  that 
made  the  latter  young  again.  The  Mar- 
quise d'Esclignac  kissed  her  niece  ten- 
derly. 

"Madame  la  Marquise,  Monsieur  le 
Due  de  Tremont  is  at  the  telephone,"  the 
servant  announced  to  her  from  the  door- 
way. 


CHAPTER  XV 
JULIA'S  ROMANCE 

FROM  her  steamer  chair  the  Mar- 
quise d'Esclignac  asked : 

"Are  you  absorbed  in  your  book, 
Julia?" 

Miss  Redmond  faintly  smiled  as  she 
laid  it  down.  She  was  absorbed  in  but 
one  thing,  morning,  noon  and  night,  wak- 
ing or  sleeping:  when  and  where  she 
should  find  him ;  how  he  was  being  treat- 
ed. Had  he  been  taken  captive  ?  He  was 
not  dead,  of  that  she  was  sure. 

"What  is  the  book,  Julia?" 

"Le  Conte  d'un  Spahi." 

"Put  it  down  and  let  me  speak  to  you 
of  Robert  de  Tremont." 

Miss  Redmond,  being  his  guest  and  in- 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


debted  to  him  for  her  luxurious  transpor- 
tation, could  not  in  decency  refuse  the  re- 
quest. 

"He  knows  nothing  whatever  of  our 
errand,  Julia." 

"Ah,  then,  what  does  he  think?" 
Miss  Redmond  on  the  arm  of  her  blue 
serge  coat  wore  a  band  of  white,  in  the 
center  of  which  gleamed  the  Red  Cross. 
The  marquise,  wrapped  in  a  sable  rug, 
held  a  small  Pekinese  lap-dog  cuddled 
under  her  arm,  and  had  only  the  appear- 
ance of  a  lady  of  leisure  bent  on  a  pleasure 
excursion.  She  did  not  suggest  a  rescuing 
party  in  the  least.  Her  jaunty  hat  was  en- 
veloped by  a  delicate  veil  ;  her  hands  were 
incased  in  long  white  gloves.  Now  that 
she  had  encouraged  her  energetic  niece 
and  taken  this  decisive  step,  she  relaxed 
and  found  what  pleasure  she  might  in  the 
voyage. 


JULIA'S  ROMANCE 


"When  we  came  pn  board  last  night, 
my  dear,  you  remember  that  I  sat  with 
Robert  in  the  salon  until  .  .  .  well, 
latish." 

"After  midnight?" 

"Possibly;  but  I  am  fifty  and  he  is 
thirty.  Moreover,  I  am  his  godmother. 
He  is  enchanting,  Julia,  spiritual  and  sym- 
pathetic. I  confess,  my  dear,  that  I  find 
myself  rather  at  a  loss  as  to  what  to  tell 
him." 

Miss  Redmond  listened  politely.  She 
was  supremely  indifferent  as  to  what  had 
been  told  to  her  host.  This  was  Tuesday ; 
they  should  reach  Algiers  on  Saturday 
at  the  latest.  What  news  would  meet 
them  there?  She  held  in  her  book  the 
last  despatch  from  the  ministry  of  war. 
Supposing  the  Captain  de  Sabron  had 
been  taken  captive  by  some  marauding 
tribe  and  was  being  held  for  a  ransom! 

U3 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


This  was  the  Romance  of  a  Spahi,  in 
which  she  was  absorbed.  Taken  cap- 
tive! She  could  not  let  herself  think 
what  that  might  mean. 

"Robert's  mother,  you  know,  is  my 
closest  friend.  His  father  was  one  of  the 
witnesses  of  my  marriage.  I  feel  that  I 
have  brought  up  Robert  ...  it  would 
have  been  so  perfect."  She  sighed. 

"Ma  tante!"  warned  Miss  Redmond, 
with  a  note  of  pain  in  her  voce. 

"Yes,  yes,"  accepted  the  marquise,  "I 
know,  my  dear,  I  know.  But  you  can  not 
escape  from  the  yacht  except  in  a  life- 
boat, and  if  you  did  it  would  be  one  of 
Robert's  lifeboats !  You  must  not  be  too 
formal  with  him."  She  tapped  the  nose 
of  her  Pekinese  dog.  "Be  still,  Mimi, 
that  man  is  only  a  sailor!  and  if  he  were 
not  here  and  at  his  duty  you  would  be 
drowned,  you  little  goose!" 
114 


JULIA'S 


The  Pekinese  dog  was  a  new  addition. 
Julia  tried  not  to  dislike  her;  for  Julia, 
only  Pitchoune  existed.  She  could  not 
touch  Mimi  without  a  sense  of  disloyalty. 

The  boat  cut  the  azure  water  with  its 
delicate  white  body,  the  decks  glistened 
like  glass.  The  sailor  at  whom  Mimi 
had  barked  passed  out  of  sight,  and  far 
up  in  the  bow  Tremont,  in  white  flannels, 
stood  smoking. 

"I  had  to  be  very  circumspect,  my  dear 
Julia,  when  I  talked  with  Robert.  You 
see  you  are  not  engaged  to  Monsieur  de 
Sabron."  The  girl  colored.  "The  senti- 
mental woman  in  me,"  her  aunt  went  on, 
"has  responded  to  all  your  fantasies,  but 
the  practical  woman  in  me  calls  me  a  ro- 
mantic goose." 

"Ah,"  breathed  Miss  Redmond,  open- 
ing her  book,  "ma  tante,  let  me  read." 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  marquise  affec- 

"5 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 

tionately.  "The  most  important  part  of 
the  whole  affair  is  that  we  are  here — that 
we  are  en  route  to  Algiers,  is  it  not?" 

The  girl  extended  her  hand  gratefully. 

"And  thank  you!  Tell  me,  what  did 
you  say  to  him  ?" 

The  marquise  hummed  a  little  tune,  and 
softly  pulled  Mimi's  ears. 

"Remember,  my  child,  that  if  we  find 
Monsieur  de  Sabron,  the  circumspection 
will  have  to  be  even  greater  still." 

"Leave  that  to  me,  ma  tante." 

"You  don't  know,"  said  the  determined 
lady  quite  sweetly,  "that  he  has  the 
slightest  desire  to  marry  you,  Julia." 

Miss  Redmond  sat  up  in  her  chair,  and 
flamed. 

"Do  you  want  to  make  me  miserable  ?" 

"I  intend  to  let  my  worldly  wisdom 
equal  this  emergency,  Julia.  I  want  Rob- 
ert to  have  no  suspicion  of  the  facts." 

116 


JULIA'S  ROMANCE 


"How  can  we  prevent  it,  ma  tantef" 

"We  can  do  so  if  you  will  obey  me." 

The  girl  started,  and  her  aunt,  looking 
up  at  the  Due  de  Tremont  where  he  stood 
in  the  bow,  saw  that  he  showed  signs  of 
finishing  his  smoke  and  of  joining  them. 

"Ma  tante,"  said  the  girl  quickly,  "have 
you  brought  me  here  under  false  colors? 
Have  you  let  him  think  .  .  ." 

"Hush,  Julia,  you  are  indebted  to  him 
for  accomplishing  your  own  desire." 

"But  I  would  never,  never   .    .    ." 

"Petite  sotte"  cried  the  marquise,  "then 
you  would  never  have  been  on  this 
yacht." 

Intensely  troubled  and  annoyed,  Julia 
asked  in  a  low  tone: 

"For  heaven's  sake,  ma  tante,  tell  me 
what  the  Due  de  Tremont  thinks  !" 

Her  aunt  laughed  softly.  The  intrigue 
and  romance  of  it  all  entertained  her.  She 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 

<^~ 

a-' 

had  the  sense  of  having  made  a  very 
pretty  concession  to  her  niece,  of  having 
accomplished  a  very  agreeable  pleasure 
trip  for  herself.  As  for  young  Sabron, 
he  would  be  sure  to  be  discovered  at  the 
right  moment,  to  be  lionized,  decorated 
and  advanced.  The  reason  that  she  had 
no  wrinkles  on  her  handsome  cheek  was 
because  she  went  lightly  through  life. 

"He  thinks,  my  dearest  girl,  that  you 
are  like  all  your  countrywomen:  a  little 
eccentric  and  that  you  have  a  strong  mind. 
He  thinks  you  one  of  the  most  tender- 
hearted and  benevolent  of  girls." 
"Ma  tante,  ma  tante!" 
"He  thinks  you  are  making  a  little  mis- 
sion  into   Algiers   among  the   sick   and 
the  wounded.     He  thinks  you  are  going 
to  sing  in  the  hospitals." 

"But,"  exclaimed  the  girl,   "he  must 
think  me  mad." 

118 


JULIA'S  ROMANCE 


"Young  men  don't  care  how  mildly 
mad  a  beautiful  young  woman  is,  my  dear 
Julia." 

"But,  he  will  find  out  .  .  .  he  will 
know." 

"No,"  said  the  marquise,  "that  he  will 
not.  I  have  attended  to  that.  He  will  not 
leave  his  boat  during  the  excursion,  Julia. 
He  remains,  and  we  go  on  shore  with  our 
people." 

"How  splendid!"  sighed  Julia  Red- 
mond, relieved. 

"I'm  glad  you  think  so,"  said  her  aunt 
rather  shortly.  "Now  I  have  a  favor  to 
ask  of  you,  my  child." 

Julia  trembled. 

"Ma  tantef" 

"While  we  are  on  board  the  yacht  you 
will  treat  Robert  charmingly." 

"I  am  always  polite  to  him,  am  I  not?" 

"You  are  like  an  irritated  sphinx  to 
119 


HIS  LOVE  STORES       02|g< 

him,  my  dear.    You  must  be  different." 

"I  thought,"  said  the  girl  in  a  subdued 
voice,  "that  it  would  be  like  this.  Oh, 
I  wish  I  had, sailed  on  any  vessel,  even  a 
cargo  vessel." 

Looking  at  her  gently,  her  aunt  said : 
"Don't  be  ridiculous.  I  only  wish  to  pro- 
tect you,  my  child.  I  think  I  have  proved 
my  friendship.  Remember,  before  the 
world  you  are  nothing  to  Charles  de 
Sabron.  A  woman's  heart,  my  dear,  has 
delusions  as  well  as  passions." 

The  girl  crimsoned  and  bowed  her 
charming  head.  "You  are  not  called  upon 
to  tell  Robert  de  Tremont  that  you  are  in 
love  with  a  man  who  has  not  asked  you 
to  marry  him,  but  you  are  his  guest,  and 
all  I  ask  of  you  is  that  you  make  the 
voyage  as  agreeable  to  him  as  you  can, 

my  dear." 

***.  rf» 

120 


JULIA'S  ROMANCE 


Tremont  was  coming  toward  them. 
Julia  raised  her  head  and  murmured : 

"I  thank  you  for  everything.  I  shall 
do  what  I  can."  And  to  herself  she  said : 
"That  is,  as  far  as  my  honor  will  let  me," 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    DUKE    IN    DOUBT 

THE  short  journey  to  Africa — over 
a  calm  and  perfect  sea,  whose 
waters  were  voices  at  her  port  to  solace 
her,  and  where  the  stars  alone  glowed 
down  like  friends  upon  her  and  seemed 
to  understand — was  a  torture  to  Julia 
Redmond.  To  herself  she  called  her  aunt 
cruel,  over  and  over  again,  and  felt  a 
prisoner,  a  caged  creature. 

Tremont  found  her  charming,  though 
in  this  role  of  Florence  Nightingale,  she 
puzzled  and  perplexed  him.  She  was 
nevertheless  adorable.  The  young  man 
had  the  good  sense  to  make  a  discreet 
courtship  and  understood  she  would  not 
be  easily  won.  Until  they  reached  Al- 


THE  DUKE  IN  DOUBT 


giers,  indeed,  until  the  night  before  they 
disembarked,  he  had  not  said  one  word 
to  her  which  might  not  have  been  shared 
by  her  aunt.  In  accordance  with  the 
French  custom,  they  never  were  alone. 
The  marquise  shut  her  eyes  and  napped 
considerably  and  gave  them  every  oppor- 
tunity she  could,  but  she  was  always  pres- 
ent. 

The  Due  de  Tremont  had  been  often  in 
love  during  his  short  life.  He  was  a 
Latin  and  thought  that  women  are  made 
to  be  loved.  It  was  part  of  his  education 
to  think  this  and  to  tell  them  this,  and  he 
also  believed  it  a  proof  of  his  good  taste 
to  tell  them  this  as  soon  as  possible. 

He  was  a  thoroughly  fine  fellow.  Some 
of  his  forefathers  had  fought  and  fallen 
in  Agincourt.  They  had  been  dukes  ever 
since.  There  was  something  distinctly 
noble  in  the  blond  young  man,  and  Julia 
123 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 

discovered  it.  Possibly  she  had  felt  it 
from  the  first.  Some  women  are  keen  to 
feel.  Perhaps  if  she  had  not  felt  it  she 
might  even  have  hesitated  to  go  to  Al- 
giers as  his  guest. 

From  the  moment  that  the  old  duchess 
had  said  to  Robert  de  Tremont: 

"Julia  Redmond  is  a  great  catch,  my 
dear  boy.  I  should  like  to  have  you  marry 
her,"  her  son  answered : 

"Bien,  ma  mere,"  with  cheerful  acqui- 
escence, and  immediately  considered  it 
and  went  to  Tarascon,  to  the  Chateau 
d'Esclignac.  When  his  mother  had  sug- 
gested the  visit,  he  told  her  that  he  in- 
tended making  up  a  party  for  the  Med- 
iterranean. 

"Why  don't  you  take  your  godmother 
and  the  American  girl?   Miss   Redmond 
has  an  income  of  nearly  a  million  francs 
and  they  say  she  is  well-bred." 
124 


r&fcft 

L/0&&CJ 
vs^rnfZ, 


THE  DUKE  IN  DOUBT 


"Very  good,  fno  mere." 

When  he  saw  Miss  Redmond  he  found 
her  lovely;  not  so  lovely  as  the  Comtesse 
de  la  Maine,  whose  invitation  to  dinner 
he  had  refused  on  the  day  his  mother 
suggested  the  Chateau  d'Esclignac.  The 
comtesse  was  a  widow.  It  is  not  very, 
very  comme  il  faut  to  marry  a  widow,  in 
the  Faubourg  St.-Germain.  Miss  Red- 
mond's beauty  was  different.  She  was 
self-absorbed  and  cold.  He  did  not  un- 
derstand her  at  all,  but  that  was  the 
American  of  her. 

One  of  his  friends  had  married  an 
American  girl  and  found  out  afterward 
that  she  chewed  gum  before  breakfast. 
Pauvre  Raymond!  Miss  Redmond  did 
not  suggest  such  possibilities.  Still  she 
was  very  different  to  a  French  jeune  fille. 

With  his  godmother  he  was  entirely  at 
ease.  Ever  since  she  had  paid  his  trifling 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


debts  when  he  was  a  young  man,  he  had 
adored  her.  Tremont,  always  discreet 
and  almost  in  love  with  his  godmother, 
kept  her  in  a  state  of  great  good  humor 
always,  and  when  she  had  suggested  to 
him  this  little  party  he  had  been  delighted. 
In  speaking  over  the  telephone  the  Mar- 
quise d'Esclignac  had  said  very  firmly : 

"My  dear  Robert,  you  understand  that 
this  excursion  engages  you  to  nothing." 

"Oh,  of  course,  marraine." 

"We  both  need  a  change,  and  between 
ourselves,  Julia  has  a  little  mission  on 
foot." 

Tremont  would  be  delighted  to  help 
Miss  Redmond  carry  it  out.  Whom  else 
should  he  ask? 

"By  all  means,  any  one  you  like,"  said 
his  godmother  diplomatically.  "We  want 
to  sail  the  day  after  to-morrow."  She 
felt  safe,  knowing  that  no  worldly  people 
126 


G8g80     THE  DUKE  IN  DOUBT 

*SP9** 

would  accept  an  invitation  on  twenty-four 
hours'  notice. 

"So,"  the  Due  de  Tremont  reflected, 
as  he  hung  up  the  receiver,  "Miss  Red- 
mond has  a  scheme,  a  mission!  Young 
girls  do  not  have  schemes  and  missions 
in  good  French  society." 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said  to  her,  as  they 
walked  up  and  down  on  the  deck  in  the 
pale  sunset,  in  front  of  the  chair  of  the 
Marquise  d'Esclignac,  "I  never  saw  an 
ornament  more  becoming  to  a  woman  than 
the  one  you  wear." 

"The  ornament,  Monsieur?" 

"On  your  sleeve.  It  is  so  beautiful.  A 
string  of  pearls  would  not  be  more  beau- 
tiful, although  your  pearls  are  lovely,  too. 
Are  all  American  girls  Red  Cross  mem- 
bers?" 

"But  of  course  not,  Monsieur.   Are  all 
girls  anywhere  one  thing?" 
127 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


"Yes,"  said  the  Due  de  Tremont,  "they 
are  all  charming,  but  there  are  grada- 
tions." 

"Do  you  think  that  we  shall  reach  Al- 
giers to-morrow,  Monsieur?" 

"I  hope  not,  Mademoiselle." 

Miss  Redmond  turned  her  fine  eyes  on 
him. 

"You  hope  notr 

"I  should  like  this  voyage  to  last  for- 
ever, Mademoiselle." 

"How  ridiculous!" 

Her  look  was  so  f  rank  that  he  laughed 
in  spite  of  himself,  and  instead  of  follow- 
ing up  the  politeness,  he  asked  : 

"Why  do  you  think  of  Algiers  as  a  field 
for  nursing  the  sick,  Mademoiselle?" 

"There  has  been  quite  a  deputation  of 
the  Red  Cross  women  lately  going  from 
Paris  to  the  East." 

"But,"  said  the  young  man,  "there  are 
128 


9&9rf'  THE  DUKE  IN  DOUBT     OSfe' 

»  ^-.''rt** 


>Q* 

B^V 


poor  in  Tarascon,  and  sick,  too.  There  is 
a  great  deal  of  poverty  in  Nice,  and  Paris 
is  the  nearest  of  all." 

"The  American  girls  are  very  imag- 
inative," said  Julia  Redmond.  "We  must 
have  some  romance  in  all  we  do." 

"I  find  the  American  girls  very  charm- 
ing," said  Tremont. 

"Do  you  know  many,  Monsieur?" 

"Only  one,"  he  said  serenely. 

Miss  Redmond  changed  the  subject 
quickly  and  cleverly,  and  before  he  knew 
it,  Tremont  was  telling  her  stories  about 
his  own  military  service,  which  had  been 
made  in  Africa.  He  talked  well  and  en- 
tertained them  both,  and  Julia  Redmond 
listened  when  he  told  her  of  the  desert,  of 
its  charm  and  its  desolation,  and  of  its 
dangers.  An  hour  passed.  The  Marquise 
d'Esclignac  took  an  ante-prandial  stroll, 
Mimi  mincing  at  her  heels. 

129 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


"Ce  pauvre  Sabron!"  said  Tremont. 
"He  has  disappeared  off  the  face  of  the 
earth.  What  a  horrible  thing  it  was, 
Mademoiselle!  I  knew  him  in  Paris;  I 
remember  meeting  him  again  the  night 
before  he  left  the  Midi.  He  was  a  fine 
fellow  with  a  career  before  him,  his 
friends  say." 

"What  do  you  think  has  become  of 
Monsieur  de  Sabron?" 

Miss  Redmond,  so  far,  had  only  been 
able  to  ask  this  question  of  her  aunt  and 
of  the  stars.  None  of  them  had  been  able 
to  tell  her.  Tremont  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders thoughtfully. 

"He  may  have  dragged  himself  away 
to  die  in  some  ambush  that  they  have  not 
discovered,  or  likely  he  has  been  taken 
captive,  le  pauvre  didble!" 

"France  will  do  all  it  can,  Mon- 
sieur , 


THE  DUKE  IN  DOUBT 


"They  will  do  all  they  can,  which  is 
to  wait.  An  extraordinary  measure,  if 
taken  just  now,  would  probably  result  in 
Sabron  being  put  to  death  by  his  captors. 
He  may  be  found  to-morrow  —  he  may 
never  be  found." 

A  slight  murmur  from  the  young  girl 
beside  him  made  Tremont  look  at  her.  He 
saw  that  her  hands  were  clasped  and  that 
her  face  was  quite  white,  her  eyes  staring 
fixedly  before  her,  out  toward  Africa. 
Tremont  said  : 

"You  are  compassion  itself,  Mademoi- 
selle; you  have  a  tender  heart.  No  won- 
der you  wear  the  Red  Cross.  I  am  a  sol- 
dier, Mademoiselle.  I  thank  you  for  all 
soldiers.  I  thank  you  for  Sabron  .  .  . 
but,  we  must  not  talk  of  such  things." 

He  thought  her  very  charming,  both 
romantic  and  idealistic.  She  would  make 
a  delightful  friend.  Would  she  not  be 


HIS  LOVE  STORY      0$§o3 

*&S$$p 

too  intense  for  a  wife?  However,  many 
women  of  fashion  joined  the  Red  Cross. 
Tremont  was  a  commonplace  man,  con- 
ventional in  his  heart  and  in  his  tastes. 

"My  children,"  said  the  marquise,  com- 
ing up  to  them  with  Mimi  in  her  arms, 
"you  are  as  serious  as  though  we  were  on 
a  boat  bound  for  the  North  Pole  and  ex- 
pected to  live  on  tinned  things  and  salt 
fish.  Aren't  you  hungry,  Julia  ?  Robert, 
take  Mimi  to  my  maid,  will  you  ?  Julia," 
said  her  aunt  as  Tremont  went  away  with 
the  little  dog,  "you  look  dramatic,  my 
dear,  you're  pale  as  death  in  spite  of  this 
divine  air  and  this  enchanting  sea."  She 
linked  her  arm  through  her  niece's.  "Take 
a  brisk  walk  with  me  for  five  minutes  and 
whip  up  your  blood.  I  believe  you  were 
on  the  point  of  making  Tremont  some  un- 
wise confession." 

"I  assure  you  no,  ma  tante" 
132 


*k3fiCki^*' 

THE  DUKE  IN  DOUBT 


"Isn't  Bob  a  darling,  Julia?" 

"Awfully,"  returned  her  niece  absent- 
mindedly. 

"He's  the  most  eligible  young  man  in 
Paris,  Julia,  and  the  most  difficult  to 
please." 

"Ma  tante"  said  the  girl  in  a  low  tone, 
"he  tells  me  that  France  at  present  can  do 
practically  nothing  about  finding  Mon- 
sieur de  Sabron.  Fancy  a  great  army  and 
a  great  nation  helpless  for  the  rescue 
of  a  single  soldier,  and  his  life  at  stake!" 

"Julia,"  said  the  marquise,  taking  the 
trembling  hand  in  her  own,  "you  will 
make  yourself  ill,  my  darling,  and  you  will 
be  no  use  to  any  one,  you  know." 

"You're  right,"  returned  the  girl,  "I 
will  be  silent  and  I  will  only  pray." 

She  turned  from  her  aunt  to  stand  for 
a  few  moments  quiet,  looking  out  at  the 
sea,  at  the  blue  water  through  which  the 

133 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


boat  cut  and  flew.  Along  the  horizon  was 
a  mist,  rosy  and  translucent,  and  out  of  it 
white  Algiers  would  shine  before  many 
hours. 

When  Tremont,  at  luncheon  a  little 
later,  looked  at  his  guests,  he  saw  a  new 
Julia.  She  had  left  her  coat  with  the 
Red  Cross  in  her  cabin  with  her  hat.  In 
her  pretty  blouse,  her  pearls  around  her 
neck,  the  soft  flush  on  her  cheeks,  she  was 
apparently  only  a  light-hearted  woman  of 
the  world.  She  teased  her  aunt  gently, 
she  laughed  very  deliciously  and  lightly 
flirted  with  the  Due  de  Tremont,  who 
opened  a  bottle  of  champagne.  The  Mar- 
quise d'Esclignac  beamed  upon  her  niece. 
Tremont  found  her  more  puzzling  than 
ever.  "She  suggests  the  chameleon,"  he 
thought,  "she  has  moods.  Before,  she 
was  a  tragic  muse;  at  luncheon  she  is  an 
adorable  sybarite." 

134 


CHAPTER  XVII 

OUT  OF  THE  DESERT 

FROM  a  dreamy  little  villa,  whose 
walls  were  streaming  with  bougain- 
villea,  Miss  Redmond  looked  over  Al- 
giers, over  the  tumult  and  hum  of  it,  to 
the  sea.  Tremont,  by  her  side,  looked  at 
her.  From  head  to  foot  the  girl  was  in 
white.  On  one  side  the  bougainvillea  laid 
its  scarlet  flowers  against,  the  stainless 
linen  of  her  dress,  and  on  her  other  arm 
was  the  Red  Cross. 

The  American  girl  and  the  Frenchman 
had  become  the  best  of  friends.  She  con- 
sidered him  a  sincere  companion  and  an 
unconscious  confederate.  He  had  not  yet 
decided  what  he  thought  of  her,  or  how. 

135 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


His  promise  to  remain  on  the  yacht  had 
been  broken  and  he  paid  his  godmother 
and  Miss  Redmond  constant  visits  at  their 
villa,  which  the  marquise  rented  for  the 
season. 

There  were  times  when  Tremont 
thought  Miss  Redmond's  exile  a  fanatical 
one,  but  he  always  found  her  fascinating 
and  a  lovely  woman,  and  he  wondered 
what  it  was  that  kept  him  from  laying  his 
title  and  his  fortune  at  her  feet.  It  had 
been  understood1  between  the  godmother 
and  himself  that  he  was  to  court  Miss 
Redmond  a  I'americaine. 

"She  has  been  brought  up  in  such  a 
shocking  fashion,  Robert,  that  nothing 
but  American  love-making  will  appeal  to 
her.  You  will  have  to  make  love  to  her, 
Robert.  Can  you  do  it?" 

"But,  marraine,  I  might  as  well  make 
love  to  a  sister  of  charity." 
136 


<3     OUT  OF  THE  DESERT 


"There  was  'la  Belle  Heloise,  and  no 
woman  is  immune." 

"I  think  she  is  engaged  to  some  Ameri- 
can cowboy  who  will  come  and  claim  her, 
marraine." 

His  godmother  was  offended. 

"Rubbish!"  she  said.  "She  is  engaged 
to  no  one,  Bob.  She  is  an  idealist,  a 
Rosalind;  but  that  will  not  prevent  her 
from  making  an  excellent  wife." 

"She  is  certainly  very  beautiful,"  said 
the  Due  de  Tremont,  and  he  told  Julia  so. 

"You  are  very  beautiful,"  said  the  Due 
de  Tremont  to  Miss  Redmond,  as  she 
leaned  on  the  balcony  of  the  villa.  The 
bougainvillea  leaned  against  her  breast. 
"When  you  stood  in  the  hospital  under  the 
window  and  sang  to  the  poor  devils,  you 
looked  like  an  angel." 

"Poor  things!"  said  Julia  Redmond. 
"Do  you  think  that  they  liked  it?" 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


''Liked  it!"  exclaimed  the  young  man 
enthusiastically,  "couldn't  you  see  by  their 
faces  ?  One  poor  devil  said  to  me :  'One 
can  die  better  now,  Monsieur.'  There 
was  no  hope  for  him,  it  seems." 

Tremont  and  the  Marquise  d'Esclignac 
had  docilely  gone  with  Julia  Redmond 
every  day  at  a  certain  hour  to  the  dif- 
ferent hospitals,  where  Julia,  after  ren- 
dering some  slight  services  to  the  nurses 
— for  she  was  not  needed — sang  for  the 
sick,  standing  in  the  outer  hallway  of  the 
building  open  on  every  side.  She  knew 
that  Sabrpn  was  not  among  these  sick. 
Where  he  was  or  what  sounds  his  ears 
might  hear,  she  could  not  know;  but  she 
sang  for  him,  and  the  fact  put  a  sweetness 
in  her  voice  that  touched  the  ears  of  the 
suffering  and  uplifted  those  who  were  not 
too  far  down  to  be  uplifted,  and  as  for 

138 


*%&a>$ 

QsfoG     OUT  OF  THE  DESERT     'Ogjgj 
%4P^fc*  WJ^^ 

.    the  dying,  it  helped  them,  as  the  soldier 
said,  to  die. 

She  had  done  this  for  several  days,  but 
now  she  was  restless.  Sabron  was  not  in 
Algiers.  No  news  had  been  brought  of 
him.  His  regiment  had  been  ordered  out 
farther  into  the  desert  that  seemed  to 
stretch  away  into  infinity,  and  the  vast 
cruel  sands  knew,  and  the  stars  knew 
where  Sabron  had  fallen  and  what  was 
his  history,  and  they  kept  the  secret. 

The  marquise  made  herself  as  much  at 
home  as  possible  in  Algiers,  put  up  with 
the  inefficiency  of  native  servants,  and 
her  duty  was  done.  Her  first  romantic 
elan  was  over.  Sabron  had  recalled  to 
her  the  idyl  of  a  love-affair  of  a  quarter 
of  a  century  before,  but  she  had  been  for 
too  long  the  Marquise  d'Esclignac  to  go 
back  to  an  ideal.  She  pined  to  have  her 

T&*» 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


niece  a  duchess,  and  never  spoke  the  un- 
fortunate Sabron's  name. 

They  were  surrounded  by  fashionable 
life.  As  soon  as  their  arrival  had  been 
made  known  there  had  been  a  flutter  of 
cards  and  a  passing  of  carriages  and  auto- 
mobiles, and  this  worldly  life  added  to 
the  unhappiness  and  restlessness  of  Julia, 
Among  the  guests  had  been  one  woman 
whom  she  found  sympathetic;  the 
woman's  eyes  had  drawn  Julia  to  her.  It 
was  the  Comtesse  de  la  Maine,  a  widow, 
young  as  herself  and,  as  Julia  said,  vastly 
better-looking.  Turning  to  Tremont  on 
the  balcony,  when  he  told  her  she  was 
beautiful,  she  said  : 

"Madame  de  la  Maine  is  my  ideal  of 
loveliness." 

The  young  man  wrinkled  his  fair  brow. 

"Do   you    think    so,    Mademoiselle? 

Why?" 

«•(«>.  /» 

140 


OUT  OF  THE  DESERT 


"She  has  character  as  well  as  perfect 
lines.  Her  eyes  look  as  though  they  could 
weep  and  laugh.  Her  mouth  looks  as 
though  it  could  say  adorable  things." 

Tremont  laughed  softly  and  said: 

"Go  on,  you  amuse  me." 

"And  her  hands  look  as  though  they 
could  caress  and  comfort.  I  like  her 
awfully.  I  wish  she  were  my  friend." 

Tremont  said  nothing,  and  she  glanced 
at  him  suddenly. 

"She  says  such  lovely  things  about  you, 
Monsieur." 

"Really!    She  is  too  indulgent" 

"Don't  be  worldly,"  said  Miss  Red- 
mond gravely,  "be  human.  I  lik$  you 
best  so.  Don't  you  agree  with  me?" 

"Madame  de  la  Maine  is  a  very  charm- 
ing woman,"  said  the  young  man,  and  the 
girl  saw  a  change  come  over  his  features. 

At  this  moment,  as  they  stood  so  to- 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


gether,  Tremont  pulling  his  mustache 
and  looking  out  through  the  bougainvillea 
vines,  a  dark  figure  made  its  way  through 
the  garden  to  the  villa,  came  and  took  its 
position  under  the  balcony  where  the  duke 
and  Miss  Redmond  leaned.  It  was  a  na- 
tive, a  man  in  filthy  rags.  He  turned  his 
face  to  Tremont  and  bowed  low  to  the 
lady. 

"Excellency,"  he  said  in  broken  French, 
"my  name  is  Hammet  Abou.  I  was  the 
ordonnance  of  Monsieur  le  Capitaine  de 
Sabron." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Tremont,  "what 
did  you  say  ?" 

"Ask  him  to  come  up  here,"  said  Julia 
Redmond,  "or,  no— let  us  go  down  to  the 
garden." 

"It  is  damp,"  said  Tremont,  "let  me 
get  you  a  shawl." 

"No,  no,  I  need  nothing." 
142 


OUT  OF  THE  DESERT 


She  had  hurried  before  him  down  the 
little  stairs  leading  into  the  garden  from 
the  balcony,  and  she  had  begun  to  speak 
to  the  native  before  Tremont  appeared. 
In  this  recital  he  addressed  his  words  to 
Julia  alone. 

"I  am  a  very  poor  man,  Excellency,"  he 
said  in  a  mellifluous  tone,  "and  very  sick." 

"Have  you  any  money,  Monsieur?" 

"Pray  do  not  suggest  it,"  said  the  duke 
sharply.  "Let  him  tell  what  he  will;  we 
will  pay  him  later." 

"I  have  been  very  sick,"  said  the  man. 
"I  have  left  the  army.  I  do  not  like  the 
French  army,"  said  the  native  simply. 

"You  are  very  frank,"  said  Tremont 
brutally.  "Why  do  you  come  here  at  any 

rate?" 

i 

"Hush,"  said  Julia  Redmond  implor- 
ingly. "Do  not  anger  him,  Monsieur,  he 
may  have  news."  She  asked  :  "Have  you 

143 


$»!<}.       HIS  LOVE  STORY 

EC 

news  ?"  and  there  was  a  note  in  her  voice 
that  made  Tremont  glance  at  her. 

"I  have  seen  the  excellency  and  her 
grandmother,"  said  the  native,  "many 
times  going  into  the  garrison." 

"What  news  have  you  of  Captain  de 
Sabron?"  asked  the  girl  directly.  With- 
out replying,  the  man  said  in  a  melancholy 
voice : 

"I  was  his  ordonnance,  I  saw  him  fall 
in  the  battle  of  Dirbal.  I  saw  him  shot 
in  the  side.  I  was  shot,  too.  See?" 

He  started  to  pull  away  his  rags.  Tre- 
mont clutched  him. 

"You  beast,"  he  muttered,  and  pushed 
him  back.  "If  you  have  anything  to  say, 
say  it" 

Looking  at  Julia  Redmond's  colorless 
face,  the  native  asked  meaningly : 

"Does  the  excellency  wish  any  news?" 

144 


OUT  OF  THE  DESERT 


"Yes,"  said  Tremont,  shaking  him. 
"And  if  you  do  not  give  it,  it  will  be  the 
worse  for  you." 

"Monsieur  le  Capitaine  fell,  and  I  fell, 
too;  I  saw  no  more." 

Tremont  said: 

"You  see  the  fellow  is  half  lunatic  and 
probably  knows  nothing  about  Sabron.  I 
shall  put  him  out  of  the  garden." 

But  Miss  Redmond  paid  no  attention 
to  her  companion.  She  controlled  her 
voice  and  asked  the  man : 

"Was  the  Capitaine  de  Sabron  alone?" 

"Except,"  said  the  native  steadily,  with 
a  glance  of  disgust  at  the  duke,  "except 
for  his  little  dog." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Julia  Redmond,  with 
a  catch  in  her  voice,  "do  you  hear  that? 
He  must  have  been  his  servant  What 
was  the  dog's  name?" 

145 
<V 


HIS  LOVE  STORY,  * 


"My  name,"  said  the  native,  "is  Ham- 
met  Abou." 

To  her  at  this  moment  Hammet  Abou 
was  the  most  important  person  in  North 
Africa. 

"What  was  the  little  dog's  name,  Ham- 
met  Abou?" 

The  man  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  at 
the  white  woman  with  admiration. 

"Pitchoune,"  he  said,  and  saw  the  ef- 
fect. 

Tremont  saw  the  effect  upon  her,  too. 

"I  have  a  wife  and  ten  children,"  said 
the  man,  "and  I  live  far  away." 

"Heavens!  I  haven't  my  purse,"  said 
Julia  Redmond.  "Will  you  not  give  him 
something,  Monsieur  ?" 

"Wait,"  said  Tremont,  "wait.  What 
else  do  you  know?  If  your  information  is 
worth  anything  to  us  we  will  pay  you, 
don't  be  afraid." 

146 


OUT  OF  THE  DESERT 


"Perhaps  the  excellency's  grandmother 
would  like  to  hear,  too,"  said  the  man 
naively. 

Julia  Redmond  smiled:  the  youthful 
Marquise  d'Esclignac! 

Once  more  Tremont  seized  the  man  by 
the  arm  and  shook  him  a  little. 

"If  you  don't  tell  what  you  have  to  say 
and  be  quick  about  it,  my  dear  fellow,  I 
shall  hand  you  over  to  the  police." 

"What  for?"  said  the  man,  "what  have 
I  done?" 

"Well,  what  have  you  got  to  tell,  and 
how  much  dp  you  want  for  it?" 

"I  want  one  hundred  francs  for  this," 
and  he  pulled  out  from  his  dirty  rags  a 
little  packet  and  held  it  up  cautiously. 

It  looked  like  a  package  of  letters  and 
a  man's  pocketbook. 

"You  take  it,"  said  the  Due  de  Tre- 
mont to  Julia  Redmond,  "you  take  it, 

147 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


Mademoiselle."  She  did  so  without  hesi- 
tation; it  was  evidently  Sabron's  pocket- 
book,  a  leather  one  with  his  initials  upon 
it,  together  with  a  little  package  of  letters. 
On  the  top  she  saw  her  letter  to  him.  Her 
hand  trembled  so  that  she  could  scarcely 
hold  the  package.  It  seemed  to  be  all  that 
was  left  to  her.  She  heard  Tremont  ask : 

"Where  did  you  get  this,  you  miserable 
dog?" 

"After  the  battle,"  said  the  man  coolly, 
with  evident  truthfulness,  "I  was  very 
sick.  We  were  in  camp  several  days  at 

.  Then  I  got  better  and  went 

along  the  dried  river  bank  to  look  for 
Monsieur  le  Capitaine,  and  I  found  this 
in  the  sands." 

"Do  you  believe  him?"  asked  Julia 
Redmond. 

"Hum,"  said  Tremont.  He  did  not 
wish  to  tell  her  he  thought  the  man  capa- 
148 


880     OUT  OF  THE  DESERT 


ble  of  robbing  the  dead  body  of  his  mas- 
ter. He  asked  the  native  :  "Have  you  no 
other  news?" 

The  man  was  silent.  He  clutched  the 
rags  at  his  breast  and  looked  at  Julia 
Redmond. 

"Please  give  him  some  money,  Mon- 
sieur." 

"The  dog  !"  Tremont  shook  him  again. 
"Not  yet."  And  he  said  to  the  man  :  "If 
this  is  all  you  have  to  tell  we  will  give  you 
one  hundred  francs  for  this  parcel.  You 
can  go  and  don't  return  here  again." 

"But  it  is  not  all,"  said  the  native  quiet- 
ly, looking  at  Julia. 

Her  heart  began  to  beat  like  mad  and 
she  looked  at  the  man.  His  keen  dark 
eyes  seemed  to  pierce  her. 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  American  girl 
boldly,  "would  you  leave  me  a  moment 
149 


HIS  LOVE  STORY       .ra_.< 
i  n.  ch 

*&*  WJ^ 

with  him?  I  think  he  wants  to  speak 
with  me  alone." 

But  the  Due  de  Tremont  exclaimed  in 
surprise : 

"To  speak  with  you  alone,  Mademoi- 
selle! Why  should  he?  Such  a  thing  is 
not  possible!" 

"Don't  go  far,"  she  begged,  "but  leave 
us  a  moment,  I  pray." 

When  Tremont,  with  great  hesitation, 
took  a  few  steps  away  from  them  and  she 
stood  face  to  face  with  the  creature  who 
had  been  with  Sabron  and  seen  him  fall, 
she  said  earnestly : 

"Now  speak  without  reserve.  Tell  me 
everything." 

The  face  of  the  man  was  transformed. 
He  became  human,  devoted,  ardent. 

"Excellency,"  he  said  swiftly  in  his 
halting  French,  "I  loved  Monsieur  le 

150 


>®o6     OUT  OF  THE  DESERT      §|I§Q 

£o»^sv-  -d&Sc? 


Capitaine.  He  was  so  kind  and  such  a 
brave  soldier.  I  want  to  go  to  find  Mon- 
sieur le  Capitaine,  but  I  am  ill  and  too 
weak  to  walk.  I  believe  I  know  where  he 
is  hid — I  want  to  go." 

The  girl  breathed : 

"Oh,  can  it  be  possible  that  what  you 
say  is  true,  Hammet  Abou?  Would  you 
really  go  if  you  could?" 

The  man  made,  with  a  graceful  gesture 
of  his  hand,  a  map  in  the  air. 

"It  was  like  this,"  he  said;  "I  think  he 
fell  into  the  bed  of  an  old  river.  I  think 
he  drew  himself  up  the  bank.  I  fol- 
lowed the  track  of  his  blood.  I  was  too 
weak  to  go  any  farther,  Excellency." 

"And  how  could  you  go  now?"  she 
asked. 

"By  caravan,  like  a  merchant,  secretly. 
I  would  find  him." 


^fc- 

HIS  LOVE  STORY       Og8g) 

Julia  Redmond  put  out  a  slim  hand, 
white  as  a  gardenia.  The  native  lifted  it 
and  touched  his  forehead  with  it. 

"Hammet  Abou,"  she  said,  "go  away 
for  to-night  and  come  to-morrow — we 
will  see  you."  And  without  waiting  to 
speak  again  to  Monsieur  de  Tremont,  the 
native  slid  away  out  of  the  garden  like  a 
shadow,  as  though  his  limbs  were  not 
weak  with  disease  and  his  breast  shat- 
tered by  shot. 

When  Monsieur  de  Tremont  had 
walked  once  around  the  garden,  keeping 
his  eyes  nevertheless  on  the  group,  he 
came  back  toward  Julia  Redmond,  but 
not  quickly  enough,  for  she  ran  up  the 
stairs  and  into  the  house  with  Sabron's 
packet  in  her  hand. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

TWO  LOVELY  WOMEN 

THERE  was  music  at  the  Villa  des 
Bougainvilleas.  Miss  Redmond 
sang;  not  Good-night,  God  Keep  You 
Safe,  but  other  things.  Ever  since  her 
talk  with  Hammet  Abou  she  had  been, 
if  not  gay,  in  good  spirits,  more  like  her 
old  self,  and  the  Marquise  d'Esclignac 
began  to  think  that  the  image  of  Charles 
de  Sabron  had  not  been  cut  too  deeply 
upon  her  mind.  The  marquise,  from  the 
lounge  in  the  shadow  of  the  room,  en- 
joyed the  picture  (Sabron  would  not  have 
added  it  to  his  collection)  of  her  niece  at 
the  piano  and  the  Due  de  Tremont  by  her 
side.  The  Comtesse  de  la  Maine  sat  in  a 
little  shadow  of  her  own,  musing  and  en- 
joying the  picture  of  the  Due  de  Tremont 

153 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


and  Miss  Redmond  very  indifferently. 
She  did  not  sing;  she  had  no  parlor  ac- 
complishments. She  was  poor,  a  widow, 
and  had  a  child.  She  was  not  a  brilliant 
match. 

From  where  he  stood,  Tremont  could 
see  the  Comtesse  de  la  Maine  in  her  little 
shadow,  the  oriental  decorations  a  back- 
ground to  her  slight  Parisian  figure,  and 
a  little  out  of  the  shadow,  the  bright  ai- 
gret  in  her  hair  danced,  shaking  its 
sparkles  of  fire.  She  looked  infinitely  sad 
and  infinitely  appealing.  One  bare  arm 
was  along  the  back  of  her  lounge.  She 
leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand. 

After  a  few  moments  the  Due  de  Tre- 
mont quietly  left  the  piano  and  Miss  Red- 
mond, and  went  and  sat  down  beside  the 
Comtesse  de  la  Maine,  who,  in  order  to 
make  a  place  for  him,  moved  out  of  the 
shadow. 


Julia,  one  after  another,  played  songs 
she  loved,  keeping  her  fingers  resolutely 
from  the  notes  that  wanted  to  run  into  a 
single  song,  the  music,  the  song  that 
linked  her  to  the  man  whose  life  had  be- 
come a  mystery.  She  glanced  at  the  Due 
de  Tremont  and  the  Comtesse  de  la 
Maine.  She  glanced  at  her  aunt,  patting 
Mimi,  who,  freshly  washed,  adorned  by 
pale  blue  ribbon,  looked  disdainful  and 
princely,  and  with  passion  and  feeling 
she  began  to  sing  the  song  that  seemed 
to  reach  beyond  the  tawdry  room  of  the 
villa  in  Algiers,  and  to  go  into  the  desert, 
trying  in  sweet  intensity  to  speak  and  to 
comfort,  and  as  she  sat  so  singing  to  one 
man,  Sabron  would  have  adored  adding 
that  picture  to  his  collection. 

The  servant  came  up  to  the  marquise 
and  gave  her  a  message.  The  lady  rose, 
beckoned  Tremont  to  follow  her,  and 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 

9 


went  out  on  the  veranda,  followed  by 
Mimi.  Julia  stopped  playing  and  went 
over  to  the  Comtesse  de  la  Maine. 

"Where  have  my  aunt  and  Monsieur  de 
Tremont  gone,  Madame?" 

"To  see  some  one  who  has  come  to  sug- 
gest a  camel  excursion,  I  believe." 

"He  chooses  a  curious  hour." 

"Everything  is  curious  in  the  East, 
Mademoiselle,"  returned  the  comtesse.  "I 
feel  as  though  my  own  life  were  turned 
upside  down." 

"We  are  not  far  enough  in  the  East  for 
that,"  smiled  Julia  Redmond.  She  re- 
garded the  comtesse  with  her  frank  girl- 
ish scrutiny.  There  was  in  it  a  fine  truth- 
fulness and  utter  disregard  of  all  the 
barriers  that  long  epochs  of  etiquette  put 
between  souls. 

Julia     Redmond     knew     nothing     of 

156 


TWO  LOVELY  WOMEN 


wia] 


French  society  and  of  the  deference  due 
to  the  arts  of  the  old  world.  She  knew, 
perhaps,  very  little  of  anything.  She  was 
young  and  unschooled.  She  knew,  as 
some  women  know,  how  to  feel,  and  how 
to  be,  and  how  to  love.  She  was  as  hon- 
est as  her  ancestors,  among  whose  tradi- 
tions is  the  story  that  one  of  them  could 
never  tell  a  lie. 

Julia  Redmond  sat  beside  the  Comtease 
de  la  Maine,  whose  elegance  she  admired 
enormously,  and  taking  one  of  the  lady's 
hands,  with  a  frank  liking  she  asked  in 
her  rich  young  voice : 

"Why  do  you  tolerate  me,  Madame  ?" 

"Ma  chere  enfant,"  exclaimed  the  com- 
tesse.  "Why,  you  are  adorable." 

"It  is  terribly  good  of  you  to  say  so," 
murmured  Julia  Redmond.  "It  shows 
how  generous  you  are." 

157 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


"But  you  attribute  qualities  to  me  I  do 
not  deserve,  Mademoiselle." 

"You  deserve  them  and  much  more, 
Madame.  I  loved  you  the  first  day  I  saw 
you ;  no  one  could  help  loving  you." 

Julia  Redmond  was  irresistible.  The 
Comtesse  de  la  Maine  had  remarked  her 
caprices,  her  moods,  her  sadness.  She 
had  seen  that  the  good  spirits  were  false 
and,  as  keen  women  do,  she  had  attrib- 
uted it  to  a  love-affair  with  the  Due  de 
Tremont  The  girl's  frankness  was  con- 
tagious. The  Comtesse  de  la  Maine  mur- 
mured : 

"I  think  the  same  of  you,  ma  chtre, 
vous  etes  charmante" 

Julia  Redmond  shook  her  head.  She 
did  not  want  compliments.  The  eyes  of 
the  two  women  met  and  read  each  other. 

"Couldn't  you  be  frank  with  me, 
Madame?  It  is  so  easy  to  be  frank." 

158 


LOVELY  WOMEN 


It  was,  indeed,  impossible  for  Julia 
Redmond  to  be  anything  else.  The  com- 
tesse,  who  was  only  a  trifle  older  than  the 
young  girl,  felt  like  her  mother  just  then. 
She  laughed. 

"But  be  frank—about  what?" 

"You  see,"  said  Julia  Redmond  swift- 
ly, "I  care  absolutely  nothing  for  the  Due 
de  Tremont,  nothing." 

"You  don't  love  him?"  returned  Ma- 
dame de  la  Maine,  with  deep  accentua- 
tion. "Is  it  possible?" 

The  girl  smiled. 

"Yes,  quite  possible.  I  think  he  is  a 
perfect  dear.  He  is  a  splendid  friend 
and  I  am  devoted  to  him,  but  I  don't  love 
him  at  all,  not  at  all." 

"Ah!"  breathed  Madame  de  la  Maine, 
and  she  looked  at  the  American  girl 
guardedly. 

For  a  moment  it  was  like  a  passage  of 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


arms  between  a  frank  young  Indian 
chief  and  a  Jesuit.  Julia,  as  it  were, 
shook  her  feathers  and  her  beads. 

"And  I  don't  care  in  the  least  about  be- 
ing a  duchess!  My  father  made  his 
money  in  oil.  I  am  not  an  aristocrat  like 
my  aunt,"  she  said. 

"Then,"  said  the  Comtesse  de  la  Maine, 
forgetting  that  she  was  a  Jesuit,  "you  will 
marry  Robert  de  Tremont  simply  to 
please  your  aunt?" 

"But  nothing  on  earth  would  induce 
me  to  marry  him  !"  cried  Julia  Redmond. 
"That's  what  I'm  telling  you,  Madame.  I 
don't  love  him  !" 

The  Comtesse  de  la  Maine  looked  at 
her  companion  and  bit  her  lip.  She 
blushed  more  warmly  than  is  permitted 
in  the  Faubourg  St.  -Germain,  but  she  was 
young  and  the  western  influence  is  perni- 
cious. 

160 


:»80    TWO  LOVELY  WOMEN    _  _ 

#ar 

"I  saw  at  once  that  you  loved  him," 
said  Julia  Redmond  frankly.  "That's 
why  I  speak  as  I  do." 

The  Comtesse  de  la  Maine  drew  back 
and  exclaimed. 

"Oh,"  said  Julia  Redmond,  "don't 
deny  it.  I  shan't  like  you  half  so  well  if 
you  do.  There  is  no  shame  in  being  in 
love,  is  there? — especially  when  the  man 
you  love,  loves  you." 

The  Comtesse  de  la  Maine  broke  down, 
or,  rather,  she  rose  high.  She  rose  above 
all  the  smallness  of  convention  and  the 
rules  of  her  French  formal  education. 

"You  are  wonderful,"  she  said,  laugh- 
ing softly,  her  eyes  full  of  tears.  "Will 
you  tell  me  what  makes  you  think  that  he 
is  fond  of  me?" 

"But  you  know  it  so  well,"  said  Julia. 
"Hasn't  he  cared  for  you  for  a  long 
time?" 

161 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


Madame  de  la  Maine  wondered  just 
how  much  Julia  Redmond  had  heard,  and 
as  there  was  no  way  of  rinding  out,  she 
said  graciously : 

"He  has  seemed  to  love  me  very  dearly 
for  many  years;  but  I  am  poor;  I  have  a 
child.  He  is  ambitious  and  he  is  the  Due 
de  Tremont." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Julia.  "He  loves 
you.  That's  all  that  counts.  You  will  be 
awfully  happy.  You  will  marry  the  Due 
de  Tremont,  won't  you?  There's  a  dear." 

"Happy,"  murmured  the  other  woman, 
"happy,  my  dear  friend,  I  never  dreamed 
of  such  a  thing!" 

"Dream  of  it  now,"  said  Julia  Red- 
mond swiftly,  "for  it  will  come  true." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  MAN  IN  RAGS 

THE  Marquise  d'Esclignac,  under 
the  stars,  interviewed  the  native  sol- 
dier, the  beggar,  the  man  in  rags,  at  the 
foot  of  the  veranda.  There  was  a  moon 
as  well  as  stars,  and  the  man  was  distinct- 
ly visible  in  all  his  squalor. 

"What  on  earth  is  he  talking  about, 

Robert?" 

"About   Sabron,   marrainc,"  said  her 

godson  laconically. 

The  Marquise  d'Esclignac  raised  her 
lorgnon  and  said : 

"Speak,  man!  What  do  you  know 
about  Monsieur  de  Sabron?  See,  he  is 
covered  with  dirt — has  leprosy,  proba- 
bly." But  she  did  not  withdraw.  She 

163 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


was  a  great  lady  and  stood  her  ground. 
She  did  not  know  what  the  word 
"squeamish"  meant. 

Listening  to  the  man's  jargon  and  put- 
ting many  things  together,  Tremont  at 
last  turned  to  the  Marquise  d'Esclignac 
who  was  sternly  fixing  the  beggar  with 
her  haughty  condescension: 

"Marraine,  he  says  that  Sabron  is  alive, 
in  the  hands  of  natives  in  a  certain  district 
where  there  is  no  travel,  in  the  heart  of 
the  seditious  tribes.  He  says  that  he  has 
friends  in  a  caravan  of  merchants  who 
once  a  year  pass  the  spot  where  this  native 
village  is." 

"The  man's  a  lunatic,"  said  the  Mar- 
quise d'Esclignac  calmly.  "Get  Abime- 
lec  and  put  him  out  of  the  garden,  Robert. 
You  must  not  let  Julia  hear  of  this." 

"Marraine''  said  Tremont  quietly, 
"Mademoiselle  Redmond  has  already 
164 


THE  MAN  IN  RAGS 


seen  this  man.  He  has  come  to  see  her 
to-night." 

"How  perfectly  horrible!"  said  the 
Marquise  d'Esclignac.  Then  she  asked 
rather  weakly  of  Tremont:  "Don't  you 
think  so?" 

"Well,  I  think,"  said  Tremont,  "that 
the  only  interesting  thing  is  the  truth 
there  may  be  in  what  this  man  says.  If 
Sabron  is  a  captive,  and  he  knows  any- 
thing about  it,  we  must  use  his  informa- 
tion for  all  it  is  worth." 

"Of  course,"  said  the  Marquise  d'Es- 
clignac, "of  course.  The  war  department 
must  be  informed  at  once.  Why  hasn't 
he  gone  there  ?" 

"He  has  explained,"  said  Tremont, 
"that  the  only  way  Sabron  can  be  saved 
is  that  he  shall  be  found  by  outsiders.  One 
hint  to  his  captors  would  end  his  life." 

"Oh!"  said  the  Marquise  d'Esclignac 


"I  don't  know  what  to  do,  Bob!  What 
part  can  we  take  in  this  ?" 

Tremont  pulled  his  mustache.  Mimi 
had  circled  round  the  beggar,  snuffing  at 
his  slippers  and  his  robe.  The  man  made 
no  objection  to  the  little  creature,  to  the 
fluffy  ball  surrounded  by  a  huge  bow,  and 
Mimi  sat  peacefully  down  in  the  moon- 
light, at  the  beggar's  feet. 

"Mimi  seems  to  like  him,"  said  the 
Marquise  d'Esclignac  helplessly,  "she  is 
very  particular." 

"She  finds  that  he  has  a  serious  and 
convincing  manner,"  said  Tremont. 

Now  the  man,  who  had  been  a  silent 
listener  to  the  conversation,  said  in  fairly 
comprehensible  English  to  the  Marquise 
d'Esclignac : 

"If  the  beautiful  grandmother  could 
have  seen  the  Capitaine  de  Sabron  on  the 
night  before  the  battle — " 
166 


THE  MAN  IN  RAGS 


"Grandmother,  indeed!"  exclaimed  the 
marquise  indignantly.  "Come,  Mimi! 
Robert,  finish  with  this  creature  and  get 
what  satisfaction  you  can  from  him.  I 
believe  him  to  be  an  impostor  ;  at  any  rate, 
he  does  not  expect  me  to  mount  a  camel 
or  to  lead  a  caravan  to  the  rescue." 

Tremont  put  Mimi  in  her  arms;  she 
folded  her  lorgnon  and  sailed  majestic- 
ally away,  like  a  highly  decorated  pinnace 
with  silk  sails,  and  Tremont,  in  the  moon- 
light, continued  to  talk  with  the  sincere 
and  convincing  Hammet  Abou. 


CHAPTER  XX 

JULIA    DECIDES 

NOW  the  young  girl  had  his  letters 
and  her  own  to  read.  They  were 
sweet  and  sad  companions  and  she  laid 
them  side  by  side.  She  did  not  weep,  be- 
cause she  was  not  of  the  weeping  type; 
she  had  hope. 

Her  spirits  remained  singularly  even. 
Madame  de  la  Maine  had  given  her  a 
great  deal  to  live  on. 

"Julia,  what  have  you  done  to  Rob- 
ert?" 

"Nothing,  ma  tante" 

"He  has  quite  changed.  This  excur- 
sion to  Africa  has  entirely  altered  him. 
He  is  naturally  so  gay,"  said  the  Mar- 
quise d'Esclignac.  "Have  you  refused 
him,  Julia?" 

168 


JULIA  DECIDES 


"Ma  tante,  he  has  not  asked  me  to  be 
the  Duchess  de  Tremont." 

Her  aunt's  voice  was  earnest. 

"Julia.,  do  you  wish  to  spoil  your  life 
and  your  chances  of  happiness?  Do  you 
wish  to  mourn  for  a  dead  soldier  who  has 
never  been  more  than  an  acquaintance? 
I  won't  even  say  a  friend" 

What  she  said  sounded  logical. 

"Ma  tante,  I  do  not  think  of  Monsieur 
de  Sabron  as  dead,  you  know." 

"Well,  in  the  event  that  he  may  be,  my 
dear  Julia." 

"Sometimes,"  said  the  girl,  drawing 
near  to  her  aunt  and  taking  the  older 
lady's  hand  quietly  and  looking  in  her 
eyes,  "sometimes,  ma  tante,  you  are 
cruel." 

The  marquise  kissed  her  and  sighed  : 

"Robert's  mother  will  be  so  unhappy  !" 

"But  she  has  never  seen  me,  ma  tante." 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


She  trusts  my  taste,  Julia." 

"There  should  be  more  than  'taste'  in 
a  matter  of  husband  and  wife,  ma  tante." 

After  a  moment,  in  which  the  Mar- 
quise d'Esclignac  gazed  at  the  bougain- 
villea  and  wondered  how  any  one  could 
admire  its  crude  and  vulgar  color,  Miss 
Redmond  asked : 

"Did  you  ever  think  that  the  Due  de 
Tremont  was  in  love?" 

Turning  shortly  about  to  her  niece,  her 
aunt  stared  at  her. 

"In  love,  my  dear !" 

"With  Madame  de  la  Maine." 

The  arrival  of  Madame  de  la  Maine 
had  been  a  bitter  blow  to  the  Marquise 
d'Esclignac.  The  young  woman  was, 
however,  much  loved  in  Paris  and  quite 
in  the  eye  of  the  world.  There  was  no 
possible  reason  why  the  Marquise  d'Es- 
clignac should  avoid  her. 

170 


JULIA  DECIDES 


"You  have  been  hearing  gossip,  Julia." 

"I  have  been  watching  a  lovely 
woman,"  said  the  girl  simply,  "and  a  man. 
That's  all.  You  wouldn't  want  me  to 
marry  a  man  who  loves  another  woman, 
ma  tante,  when  the  woman  loves  him  and 
when  I  love  another  man?" 

She  laughed  and  kissed  her  aunt's 
cheek. 

"Let  us  think  of  the  soldier,"  she  mur- 
mured, "let  us  think  just  of  him,  ma  tante, 
will  you  not?" 

The  Marquise  d'Esclignac  struck  her 
colors. 

In  the  hallway  of  the  villa,  in  a  snowy 
gibbeh,  (and  his  clean-washed  appearance 
was  much  in  his  favor)  Hammet  Abou 
waited  to  talk  with  the  "grandmother" 
and  the  excellency. 

He  pressed  both  his  hands  to  his  fore- 
head and  his  breast  as  the  ladies  entered 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


the  vestibule.  There  was  a  stagnant  odor 
of  myrrh  and  sandalwood  in  the  air.  The 
marble  vestibule  was  cool  and  dark,  the 
walls  hung  with  high-colored  stuffs,  the 
windows  drawn  to  keep  out  the  heat. 

The  Due  de  Tremont  and  Madame  de 
la  Maine  came  out  of  the  salon  together. 
Tremont  nodded  to  the  Arab. 

"I  hope  you  are  a  little  less  —  "  and  he 
touched  his  forehead  smiling,  "to-day,  my 
friend." 

"I  am  as  God  made  me,  Monsieur." 

"What  have  you  got  to-day?"  asked 
Julia  Redmond  anxiously,  fixing  her 
eager  eyes  upon  Hammet. 

It  seemed  terrible  to  her  that  this  man 
should  stand  there  with  a  vital  secret  and 
that  they  should  not  all  be  at  his  feet.  He 
glanced  boldly  around  at  them. 

"There  are  no  soldiers  here?" 


JULIA  DECIDES 


"No,  no,  you  may  speak  freely." 
The  man  went   forward  to  Tremont 
and  put  a  paper  in  his  hands,  unfolding 
it  like  a  chart. 

"This  is  what  monsieur  asked  me  for  — 
a  plan  of  the  battle-field.  This  is  the  bat- 
tle-field, and  this  is  the  desert." 

Tremont  took  the  chart.    On  the  page 

was  simply  a  round  circle,  drawn  in  recj 

ink,  with  a  few  Arabian  characters  and 

nothing  else.     Hammet  Abou  traced  the 

circle  with  his  fingers  tipped  with  henna. 

"That  was  the  battle,  Monsieur." 

"But  this  is  no  chart,  Hammet  Abou." 

The  other  continued,  unmoved  : 

"And  all  the  rest  is  a  desert,  like  this." 

Tremont,  over  the  man's  snowy  turban, 

glanced  at  the  others  and  shrugged.    Ev- 

ery one  but  Julia  Redmond  thought  he 

was  insane.     She  came  up  to  him  where 


"M'73 


•S3 

ijWm^^ztnr 

HIS  LOVE  STORY 

,4$9« 

he  stood  close  to  Tremont.  She  said  very 
slowly  in  French,  compelling  the  man's 
dark  eyes  to  meet  hers: 

"You  don't  wish  to  tell  us,  Hammet 
Abou,  anything  more.  Am  I  not  right? 
You  don't  wish  us  to  know  the  truth." 

Now  it  was  the  American  pitted  against 
the  Oriental.  The  Arab,  with  deference, 
touched  his  forehead  before  her. 

"If  I  made  a  true  plan,"  he  said  coolly, 
"your  excellency  could  give  it  to-morrow 
to  the  government." 

"Just  what  should  be  done,  Julia,"  said 
the  Marquise  d'Esclignac,  in  English. 
"This  man  should  be  arrested  at  once." 

"Ma  tante,"  pleaded  Julia  Redmond. 

She  felt  as  though  a  slender  thread  was 
between  her  fingers,  a  thread  which  led 
her  to  the  door  of  a  labyrinth  and  which 
a  rude  touch  might  cause  her  to  lose  for- 
ever. 


JULIA  DECIDES 


"If  you  had  money  would  you  start  out 
to  find  Monsieur  de  Sabron  at  once?" 

"It  would  cost  a  great  deal,  Excel- 
lency." 

"You  shall  have  all  the  money  you 
need.  Do  you  think  you  would  be  able  to 
find  your  way?" 

"Yes,  Excellency." 

The  Due  de  Tremont  watched  the 
American  girl.  She  was  bartering  with 
an  Arabian  for  the  salvation  of  a  poor 
officer.  What  an  enthusiast!  He  had  no 
idea  she  had  ever  seen  Sabron  more  than 
once  or  twice  in  her  life.  He  came  for- 
ward. 

"Let  me  talk  to  this  man,"  he  said  with 
authority,  and  Julia  Redmond  did  not  dis- 
pute him. 

In  a  tone  different  from  the  light  and 
mocking  one  that  he  had  hitherto  used  to 
the  Arab,  Tremont  began  to  ask  a  dozen 

175 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 

questions  severely,  and  in  his  answers  to 
the  young  Frenchman,  Hammet  Abou  be- 
gan to  make  a  favorable  impression  on 
every  one  save  the  Marquise  d'Esclignac, 
who  did  not  understand  him.  There  was 
a  huge  bamboo  chair  on  a  dais  under  a 
Chinese  pagoda,  and  the  Marquise  d'Es- 
clignac took  the  chair  and  sat  upright  as 
on  a  throne.  Mimi,  who  had  just  been 
fed,  came  in  tinkling  her  little  bells  and 
fawned  at  the  sandals  on  Hammet  Abou's 
bare  feet.  After  talking  with  the  native, 
Tremont  said  to  his  friends  : 

"This  man  says  that  if  he  joins  a  Jew- 
ish caravan,  which  leaves  here  to-morrow 
at  sundown,  he  will  be  taken  with  these 
men  and  leave  the  city  without  suspicion, 
but  he  must  share  the  expenses  of  the 
whole  caravan.  The  expedition  will  not 
be  without  danger ;  it  must  be  entered  into 
with  great  subtlety.  He  is  either,"  said 

176 


JULIA  DECIDES 


Tremont,  "an  impostor  or  a  remarkable 
man." 

"He  is  an  impostor,  of  course,"  mur- 
mured the  Marquise  d'Esclignac.  "Come 
here,  Mimi." 

Tremont  went  on: 

"Further  he  will  not  disclose  to  us.  He 
has  evidently  some  carefully  laid  plan  for 
rescuing  Sabron." 

There  was  a  pause.  Hammet  Abou, 
his  hands  folded  peacefully  across  his 
breast,  waited.  Julia  Redmond  waited. 
The  Comtesse  de  la  Maine,  in  her  pretty 
voice,  asked  quickly: 

"But,  mes  amis,  there  is  a  man's  life  at 
stake!  Why  do  we  stand  here  talking  in 
the  antechamber?  Evidently  the  war 
office  has  done  all  it  can  for  the  Capitaine 
de  Sabron.  But  they  have  not  found 
him.  Whether  this  fellow  is  crazy  or 
not,  he  has  a  wonderful  hypothesis." 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


A  brilliant  look  of  gratitude  crossed 
Julia  Redmond's  face.  She  glanced  at  the 
Comtesse  de  la  Maine. 

"Ah,  she's  got  the  heart!"  she  said  to 
herself.  "I  knew  it."  She  crossed  the 
hall  to  the  Comtesse  de  la  Maine  and 
slipped  her  arm  in  hers. 

"Has  Monsieur  de  Sabron  no  near  fam- 
ily?" 

"No,"  said  the  Marquise  d'Esclignac 
from  her  throne.  "He  is  one  of  those  un- 
familied  beings  who,  when  they  are  once 
taken  into  other  hearts  are  all  the  dearer 
because  of  their  orphaned  state." 

Her  tone  was  not  unkind.  It  was  af- 
fectionate. 

"Now,  my  good  man,"  she  said  to 
Hammet  Abou,  in  a  language  totally  in- 
comprehensible to  him,  "money  is  no  ob- 
ject in  this  question,  but  what  will  you  do 
with  Monsieur  de  Sabron  if  you  find  him  ? 


IP* 

£520  JULIA  DECIDES 

*SP5W. 

He  may  be  an  invalid,  and  the  ransom 
will  be  fabulous." 

The  Comtesse  de  la  Maine  felt  the  girl's 
arm  in  hers  tremble.  Hammet  Abou  an- 
swered none  of  these  questions,  for  he  did 
not  understand  them.  He  said  quietly  to 
Tremont : 

"The  caravan  starts  to-morrow  at  sun- 
down and  there  is  much  to  do." 

Tremont  stood  pulling  his  mustache. 
He  looked  boyish  and  charming,  withal 
serious  beyond  his  usual  habit.  His  eyes 
wandered  over  to  the  comer  where  the 
two  women  stood  together. 

"I  intend  to  go  with  you,  Hammet 
Abou,"  said  he  slowly,  "if  it  can  be  ar- 
ranged. Otherwise  this  expedition  does 
not  interest  me." 

Two  women  said: 

"Oh,  heavens !"  at  once. 

Robert  de  Tremont  heard  the  note  of 
179 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


anxiety  in  the  younger  voice  alone.    He 
glanced  at  the  Comtesse  de  la  Maine. 

"You  are  quite  right,  Madame,"  he 
said,  "a  man's  life  is  at  stake  and  we  stand 
chaffing  here.  I  know  something  of  what 
the  desert  is  and  what  the  natives  are. 
Sabron  would  be  the  first  to  go  if  it  were 
a  question  of  a  brother  officer." 

The  Marquise  /  d'Esclignac  got  down 
from  her  throne,  trembling.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  her  niece. 

"Julia,"  she  began,  and  stopped. 

Madame  de  la  Maine  said  nothing. 

"Robert,  you  are  my  godson,  and  I  for- 
bid it.  Your  mother  —  " 

"—is  one  of  the  bravest  women  I  ever 
knew,"  said  her  godson.  "My  father  was 
a  soldier." 

Julia  withdrew  her  arm  from  the  Com- 
tesse de  la  Maine  as  though  to  leave  her 
free. 

180 


JULIA  DECIDES 


"Then  you  two  girls,"  said  the  Mar- 
quise d'Esclignac,  thoroughly  American 
for  a  moment,  "must  forbid  him  to  go." 
She  fixed  her  eyes  sternly  upon  her  niece, 
with  a  glance  of  entreaty  and  reproach. 
Miss  Redmond  said  in  a  firm  voice  : 

"In  Monsieur  de  Tremont's  case  I 
should  do  exactly  what  he  proposes." 

"But  he  is  risking  his  life,"  said  the 
Marquise  d'Esclignac.  "He  is  not  even 
an  intimate  friend  of  Monsieur  de  Sa- 
bron!" 

Tremont  said,  smiling: 

"You  tell  us  that  he  has  no  brother, 
marraine.  Eh  bien,  I  will  pass  as  his 
brother." 

A  thrill  touched  Julia  Redmond's  heart. 
She  almost  loved  him.  If,  as  her  aunt  had 
said,  Sabron  had  been  out  of  the  ques- 
tion .  .  . 

"Madame  de  la  Maine,"  said  the  Mar- 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


quise  d'Esclignac,  her  hands  shaking,  "I 
appeal  to  you  to  divert  this  headstrong 
young  man  from  his  purpose." 

The  Comtesse  de  la  Maine  was  the  pal- 
est of  the  three  women.  She  had  been 
quietly  looking  at  Tremont  and  now  a 
smile  crossed  her  lips  that  had  tears  back 

of  it — one  of  those  beautiful  smiles  that 

t 

mean  so  much  on  a  woman's  face.  She 
was  the  only  one  of  the  three  who  had  not 
yet  spoken.  Tremont  was  waiting  for 
her.  Hammet  Abou,  with  whom  he  had 
been  in  earnest  conversation,  was  answer- 
ing his  further  questions.  The  Marquise 
d'Esclignac  shrugged,  threw  up  her  hands 
as  though  she  gave  up  all  questions  of 
romance,  rescue  and  disappointed  love 
and  foolish  girls,  and  walked  out  thor- 
oughly wretched,  Mimi  tinkling  at  her 
heels.  The  Comtesse  de  la  Maine  said  to 
Julia: 

,182 


JULIA  DECIDES 


"Ma  chhe,  what  were  the  words  of  the 
English  song  you  sang  last  night — the 
song  you  told  me  was  a  sort  of  prayer. 
Tell  me  the  words  slowly,  will  you?" 

They  walked  out  of  the  vestibule  to- 
gether, leaving  Hammet  Abou  and  Tre- 
mont  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

MASTER  AND  FRIEND 

PITCHOUNE,  who  might  have  been 
considered  as  one  of  the  infinitesimal 
atoms  in  the  economy  of  the  universe,  ran 
over  the  sands  away  from  his  master.  He 
was  an  infinitesimal  dot  on  the  desert's 
face.  He  was  only  a  small  Irish  terrier 
in  the  heart  of  the  Sahara.  His  little  wiry 
body  and  his  color  seemed  to  blend  with 
the  dust.  His  eyes  were  dimmed  by  hun- 
ger and  thirst  and  exhaustion,  but  there 
was  the  blood  of  a  fighter  in  him  and  he 
was  a  thoroughbred.  Nevertheless,  he 
was  running  away.  It  looked  very  much 
like  it.  There  was  no  one  to  comment  on 
his  treachery;  had  there  been,  Pitchoune 
would  not  have  run  far. 


MASTER  AND  FRIEND 


It  was  not  an  ordinary  sight  to  see  on 
the  Sahara — a  small  Irish  terrier  going  as 
fast  as  he  could. 

Pitchoune  ran  with  his  nose  to  the 
ground.  There  were  several  trails  for  a 
dog  to  follow  on  that  apparently  untrod- 
den page  of  desert  history.  Which  one 
would  he  choose  ?  Without  a  scent  a  dog 
does  nothing.  His  nostrils  are  his  in- 
stinct. His  devotion,  his  faithfulness,  his 
intelligence,  his  heart — all  come  through 
his  nose.  A  man's  heart,  they  say,  is  in 
his  stomach — or  in  his  pocket.  A  dog's  is 
in  his  nostrils.  If  Pitchoune  had  chosen 
the  wrong  direction,  this  story  would  nev- 
er have  been  written.  Michette  did  not 
give  birth  to  the  sixth  puppy,  in  the  sta- 
bles of  the  garrison,  for  nothing.  Nor 
had  Sabron  saved  him  on  the  night  of  the 
memorable  dinner  for  nothing. 

With  his  nose  flat  to  the  sands  Pit- 

185 


"% 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


choune  smelt  to  east  and  to  west, 
to  north  and  south,  took  a  scent  to 
the  east,  decided  on  it — for  what  rea- 
son will  never  be  told — and  followed  it. 
Fatigue  and  hunger  were  forgotten  as 
hour  after  hour  Pitchoune  ran  across  the 
Sahara.  Mercifully,  the  sun  had  been 
clouded  by  the  precursor  of  a  wind-storm. 
The  air  was  almost  cool.  Mercifully,  the 
wind  did  not  arise  until  the  little  terrier 
had  pursued  his  course  to  the  end. 

There  are  occasions  when  an  animal's 
intelligence  surpasses  the  human.  When, 
toward  evening  of  the  twelve  hours  that  it 
had  taken  him  to  reach  a  certain  point,  he 
came  to  a  settlement  of  mud  huts  on  the 
borders  of  an  oasis,  he  was  pretty  nearly 
at  the  end  of  his  strength.  The  oasis  was 
the  only  sign  of  life  in  five  hundred  miles. 
There  was  very  little  left  in  his  small 
body.  He  lay  down,  panting,  but  his 

186 


MASTER  AND  FRIEND 


bright  spirit  was  unwilling  just  then  to 
leave  his  form  and  hovered  near  him.  In 
the  religion  of  Tatman  dogs  alone  have 
souls. 

Pitchoune  panted  and  dragged  himself 
to  a  pool  of  water  around  which  the  green 
palms  grew,  and  he  drank  and  drank. 
Then  the  little  desert  wayfarer  hid  him- 
self in  the  bushes  and  slept  till  morning. 
All  night  he  was  racked  with  convulsive 
twitches,  but  he  slept  and  in  his  dreams, 
he  killed  a  young  chicken  and  ate  it.  In 
the  morning  he  took  a  bath  in  the  pool, 
and  the  sun  rose  while  he  swam  in  the 
water. 

If  Sabron  or  Miss  Redmond  could  have 
seen  him  he  would  have  seemed  the 
epitome  of  heartless  egoism.  He  was  the 
epitome  of  wisdom.  Instinct  and  wis- 
dom sometimes  go  closely  together.  Solo- 
mon was  only  instinctive  when  he  asked 

187 


STORY 


for  wisdom.  The  epicurean  Lucullus, 
when  dying,  asked  for  a  certain  Nile  fish 
cooked  in  wine. 

Pitchoune  shook  out  his  short  hairy 
body  and  came  out  of  the  oasis  pool  into 
the  sunlight  and  trotted  into  the  Arabian 
village. 

Fatou  Anni  parched  corn  in  a  brazier 
before  her  house.  Her  house  was  a  mud 
hut  with  yellow  walls.  It  had  no  roof  and 
was  open  to  the  sky.  Fatou  Anni  was 
ninety  years  old,  straight  as  a  lance — 
straight  as  one  of  the  lances  the  men  of 
the  village  carried  when  they  went  to  dis- 
pute with  white  people.  These  lances  with 
which  the  young  men  had  fought, 
had  won  them  the  last  battle.  They  had 
been  victorious  on  the  field. 

Fatou  Anni  was  the  grandmother  of 
many  men.  She  had  been  the  mother  of 

188 


MASTER  AND  FRIEND 


many  men.  Now  she  parched  corn  tran- 
quilly, prayerfully. 

"Allah !  that  the  corn  should  not  burn ; 
Allah  1  that  it  should  be  sweet ;  Allah !  that 
her  men  should  be  always  successful." 

She  was  the  fetish  of  the  settlement.  In 
a  single  blue  garment,  her  black  scrawny 
breast  uncovered,  the  thin  veil  that  the 
Fellaheen  wear  pushed  back  from  her 
face,  her  fine  eyes  were  revealed  and  she 
might  have  been  a  priestess  as  she  bent 
over  her  corn ! 

"Allah!  Allah  Akbar!" 

Rather  than  anything  should  Happen  to 
Fatou  Anni,  the  settlement  would  have 
roasted  its  enemies  alive,  torn  them  in 
shreds.  Some  of  them  said  that  she  was 
two  hundred  years  old.  There  was  a 
charmed  ring  drawn  around  her  house. 
People  supposed  that  if  any  creature 
crossed  it  uninvited,  it  would  fall  dead. 

189 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


The  sun  had  risen  for  an  hour  and  the 
air  was  still  cool.  Overhead,  the  sky,  un- 
stained by  a  single  cloud,  was  blue  as  a 
turquoise  floor,  and  against  it,  black  and 
portentous,  flew  the  vultures.  Here  and 
there  the  sun-touched  pools  gave  life  and 
reason  to  the  oasis. 

Fatou  Anni  parched  her  corn.  Her  bar- 
baric chant  was  interrupted  by  a  sharp 
bark  and  a  low  pleading  whine. 

She  had  never  heard  sounds  just  like 
that.  The  dogs  of  the  village  were  great 
wolf-like  creatures.  Pitchoune's  bark 
was  angelic  compared  with  theirs.  He 
crossed  the  charmed  circle  drawn  around 
her  house,  and  did  not  fall  dead,  and  stood 
before  her,  whining.  Fatou  Anni  left  her 
corn,  stood  upright  and  looked  at  Pit- 
choune.  To  her  the  Irish  terrier  was  an 
apparition.  The  fact  that  he  had  not  fal- 
len dead  proved  that  he  was  beloved  of 


MASTER  AND  FRIEND 

^ 

•> « 

Allah.     He  was,  perhaps,   a  genie,   an 
afrit. 

Pitchoune  fawned  at  her  feet.  She 
murmured  a  line  of  the  Koran.  It  did  not 
seem  to  affect  his  demonstrative  affection. 
The  woman  bent  down  to  him  after  mak- 
ing a  pass  against  the  Evil  Eye,  and 
touched  him,  and  Pitchoune  licked  her 
hand. 

Fatou  Anni  screamed,  dropped  him, 
went  into  the  house  and  made  her  ablu- 
tions. When  she  came  out  Pitchoune  sat 
patiently  before  the  parched  corn,  and  he 
again  came  crawling  to  her. 

The  Arabian  woman  lived  in  the  last 
hut  of  the  village.  She  could  satisfy  her 
curiosity  without  shocking  her  neighbors. 
She  bent  down  to  scrutinize  Pitchoune's 
collar.  There  was  a  sacred  medal  on  it 
with  sacred  inscriptions  which  she  could 
not  read.  But  as  soon  as  she  had  freed  him 
191 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


this  time,  Pitchoune  tore  himself  away 
from  her,  flew  out  of  the  sacred  ring  and 
disappeared.  Then  he  ran  back,  barking 
appealingly ;  he  took  the  hem  of  her  dress 
in  his  mouth  and  pulled  her.  He  repeat- 
edly did  this  and  the  superstitious  Ara- 
bian believed  herself  to  be  called  divinely. 
She  cautiously  left  the  door-step,  her  veil 
falling  before  her  face,  came  out  of  the 
sacred  ring,  followed  to  the  edge  of  the 
berry  field.  From  there  Pitchoune  sped 
over  the  desert;  then  he  stopped  and 
looked  back  at  her.  Fatou  Anni  did  not 
follow,  and  he  returned  to  renew  his  en- 
treaties. When  she  tried  to  touch  him  he 
escaped,  keeping  at  a  safe  distance.  The 
village  began  to  stir.  Blue  and  yellow 
garments  fluttered  in  the  streets. 

"Allah  Akbar,"  Fatou  Anni  murmured, 
"these  are  days  of  victory,  of  recom- 
pense." 


192 


MASTER  AND  FRIEND 


She  gathered  her  robe  around  her  and, 
stately  and  impressively,  started  toward 
the  huts  of  her  grandsons.  When  she  re- 
turned, eight  young  warriors,  fully  armed, 
accompanied  her.  Pitchoune  sat  beside 
the  parched  corn,  watching  the  brazier  and 
her  meal.  Fatou  Anni  pointed  to  the  des- 
ert. 

She  said  to  the  young  men,  "Go  with 
this  genie.  There  is  something  he  wishes 
to  show  us.  Allah  is  great.  Go." 

When  the  Capitaine  de  Sabron  opened 
his  eyes  in  consciousness,  they  encoun- 
tered a  square  of  blazing  blue  heaven.  He 
weakly  put  up  his  hand  to  shade  his  sight, 
and  a  cotton  awning,  supported  by  four 
bamboo  poles,  was  swiftly  raised  over  his 
head.  He  saw  objects  and  took  cogni- 
zance of  them.  On  the  floor  in  the  low 
doorway  of  a  mud  hut  sat  three  little 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


naked  children  covered  with  flies 
and  dirt.  He  was  the  guest  of 
Fatou  Anni.  These  were  three  of 
her  hundred  great-great-grandchildren. 
The  babies  were  playing  with  a  lit- 
tle dog.  Sabron  knew  the  dog  but  could 
not  articulate  his  name.  By  his  side  sat 
the  woman  to  whom  he  owed  his  life.  Her 
veil  fell  over  her  face.  She  was  braiding 
straw.  He  looked  at  her  intelligently.  She 
brought  him  a  drink  of  cool  water  in  an 
earthen  vessel,  with  the  drops  oozing  from 
its  porous  sides.  The  hut  reeked  with 
odors  which  met  his  nostrils  at  every 
breath  he  drew.  He  asked  in  Arabic : 

"Where  ami?" 

"In  the  hut  of  victory,"  said  Fatou 
Anni. 

Pitchoune  overheard  the  voice  and 
came  to  Sabron's  side.  His  master  mur- 
mured : 

^^*Bk  S* 

194 


•kffifl^* 

£>2°c<)      MASTER  AND  FRIEND 

*OP2^  ^£Q°^ 

"Where  are  we,  my  friend?" 

The  dog  leaped  on  his  bed  and  licked 
his  face.  Fatou  Anni,  with  a  whisk  of 
straw,  swept  the  flies  from  him.  A  great 
weakness  spread  its  wings  above  him  and 
he  fell  asleep. 

Days  are  all  alike  to  those  who  lie  in 
mortal  sickness.  The  hours  are  intensely 
colorless  and  they  slip  and  slip  and  slip 
into  painful  wakefulness,  into  fever,  into 
drowsiness  finally,  and  then  into  weak- 
ness. 

The  Capitaine  de  Sabron,  although  he 
had  no  family  to  speak  of,  did  possess, 
unknown  to  the  Marquise  d'Esclignac,  an 
old  aunt  in  the  provinces,  and  a  hand- 
ful of  heartless  cousins  who  were  indif- 
ferent to  him.  Nevertheless  he  clung  to 
life  and  in  the  hut  of  Fatou  Anni  fought 
for  existence.  Every  time  that  he  was  con- 
scious he  struggled  anew  to  hold  to  the 

195 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


thread  of  life.  Whenever  he  grasped  the 
thread  he  vanquished,  and  whenever  he 
lost  it,  he  went  down,  down. 

Fatou  Anni  cherished  him.  He  was  a 
soldier  who  had  fallen  in  the  battle  against 
her  sons  and  grandsons.  He  was  a  man 
and  a  strong  one,  and  she  despised 
women.  He  was  her  prey  and  he  was  her 
reward  and  she  cared  for  him  ;  as  she  did 
so,  she  became  maternal. 

His  eyes  which,  when  he  was  conscious, 
thanked  her  ;  his  thin  hands  that  moved  on 
the  rough  blue  robe  thrown  over  him,  the 
devotion  of  the  dog  —  found  a  responsive 
chord  in  the  great-grandmother's  heart. 
Once  he  smiled  at  one  of  the  naked,  big- 
bellied  great-great-grandchildren.  Beni 
Hassan,  three  years  old,  came  up  to  Sa- 
bron  with  his  finger  in  his  mouth  and  chat- 
tered like  a  bird.  This  proved  to  Fatou 
Anni  that  Sabron  had  not  the  Evil  Eye. 
196 


MASTER  AND  FRIEND 


No  one  but  the  children  were  admitted 
to  the  hut,  but  the  sun  and  the  flies  and  the 
cries  of  the  village  came  in  without  per- 
mission, and  now  and  then,  when  the 
winds  arose,  he  could  hear  the  stirring  of 
the  palm  trees. 

Sabron  was  reduced  to  skin  and  bone. 
His  nourishment  was  insufficient,  and  the 
absence  of  all  decent  care  was  slowly 
taking  him  to  death.  It  will  never  be 
known  why  he  did  not  die. 

Pitchoune  took  to  making  long  excur- 
sions. He  would  be  absent  for  days,  and 
in  his  clouded  mind  Sabron  thought  the 
dog  was  reconnoitering  for  him  over  the 
vast  pink  sea  without  there — which,  if 
one  could  sail  across  as  in  a  ship,  one 
would  sail  to  France,  through  the  walls 
of  mellow  old  Tarascon,  to  the  chateau 
of  good  King  Rene;  one  would  sail  as 
the  moon  sails,  and  through  an  open  win- 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


dow  one  might  hear  the  sound  of  a 
woman's  voice  singing.  The  song,  ever 
illusive  and  irritating  in  its  persistency, 
tantalized  his  sick  ears. 

Sabron  did  not  know  that  he  would 
have  found  the  chateau  shut  had  he  sailed 
there  in  the  moon.  It  was  as  well  that  he 
did  not  know,  for  his  wandering  thought 
would  not  have  known  where  to  follow, 
and  there  was  repose  in  thinking  pf  the 
Chateau  d'Esclignac. 

It  grew  terribly  hot.  Fatou  Anni,  by 
his  side,  fanned  him  with  a  fan  she  had 
woven.  The  great-great-grandchildren  on 
the  floor  in  the  mud  fought  together.  They 
quarreled  over  bits  of  colored  glass.  Sa- 
bron's  breath  came  panting.  Without,  he 
heard  the  cries  of  the  warriors,  the  lance- 
bearers  —  he  heard  the  cries  of  Fatou 
Anni's  sons  who  were  going  out  to  bat- 
tle. The  French  soldiers  were  in  a  dis- 


MASTER  AND  FRIEND 


tant  part  of  the  Sahara  and  Fatou  Anni'a 
grandchildren  were  going  out  to  pillage 
and  destroy.  The  old  woman  by  his  side 
cried  out  and  beat  her  breast.  Now  and 
then  she  looked  at  him  curiously,  as  if 
she  saw  death  on  his  pale  face.  Now 
that  all  her  sons  and  grandsons  had  gone, 
he  was  the  only  man  left  in  the  village, 
as  even  boys  of  sixteen  had  joined  the 
raid.  She  wiped  his  forehead  and  gave 
him  a  potion  that  had  healed  her  hus- 
band after  his  body  had  been  pierced  with 
arrows.  It  was  all  she  could  do  for  a 
captive. 

Toward  sundown,  for  the  first  time 
Sabron  felt  a  little  better,  and  after  twen- 
ty-four hours'  absence,  Pitchoune  whined 
at  the  hut  door,  but  would  not  come  in. 
Fatou  Anni  called  on  Allah,  left  her  pa- 
tient and  went  out  to  see  what  was  the 
matter  with  the  dog.  At  the  door,  in 
199 


HIS  LOVE  STORY         0^o(_ 

*&$& 

the  shade  of  a  palm,  stood  two  Bedouins. 

It  was  rare  for  the  caravan  to  pass  by 
Beni  Medinet.  The  old  woman's  super- 
stition foresaw  danger  in  this  visit.  Her 
veil  before  her  face,  her  gnarled  old  fin- 
gers held  the  fan  with  which  she  had  been 
fanning  Sabron.  She  went  out  to  the 
strangers.  Down  by  the  well  a  group  of 
girls  in  garments  of  blue  and  yellow,  with 
earthen  bottles  on  their  heads,  stood 
staring  at  Beni  Medinet's  unusual  visit- 
ors. 

"Peace  be  with  you,  Fatou  Anni,"  said 
the  older  of  the  Bedouins. 

"Are  you  a  cousin  or  a  brother  that  you 
know  my  name?"  asked  the  ancient 
woman. 

"Every  one  knows  the  name  of  the  old- 
est woman  in  the  Sahara,"  said  Hammet 
Abou,  "and  the  victorious  are  always 
brothers." 

f"C^   If 

2OO 

y 

7 


MASTER  AXD  FRIEND 


"What  do  you  want  with  me?"  she 
asked,  thinking  of  the  helplessness  of  the 
village. 

Hammet  Abou  pointed  to  the  hut 

"You  have  a  white  captive  in  there.  Is 
he  alive?" 

"What  is  that  to  you,  son  of  a  dog?" 

"The  mother  of  many  sons  is  wise," 
said  Hammet  Abou  portentously,  "but 
she  does  not  know  that  this  man  carries 
the  Evil  Eye.  His  dog  carries  the  Evil 
Eye  for  his  enemies.  Your  people  have 
gone  to  battle.  Unless  this  man  is 
cast  out  from  your  village,  your  young 
men,  your  grandsons  and  your  sons  will 
be  destroyed." 

The  old  woman  regarded  him  calmly. 

"I  do  not  fear  it,"  she  said  tranquilly. 
"We  have  had  corn  and  oil  in  plenty.  He 
is  sacred." 

For  the  first  time  she  looked  at  his  com- 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


fo%© 


panion,  tall  and  slender  and  evidently 
younger. 

"You  favor  the  coward  Franks,"  she 
said  in  a  high  voice.  "You  have  come  to 
fall  upon  us  in  our  desolation." 

She  was  about  to  raise  the  peculiar  wail 
which  would  have  summoned  to  her  all 
the  women  of  the  village.  The  dogs  of 
the  place  had  already  begun  to  show  their 
noses,  and  the  villagers  were  drawing  near 
the  people  under  the  palms.  Now  the 
young  man  began  to  speak  swiftly  in  a 
language  that  she  did  not  understand, 
addressing  his  comrade.  The  language 
was  so  curious  that  the  woman,  with  the 
cry  arrested  on  her  lips,  stared  at  him. 
Pointing  to  his  companion,  Hammet 
Abou  said: 

"Fatou  Anni,  this  great  lord  kisses  your 
hand.  He  says  that  he  wishes  he  could 
speak  your  beautiful  language.  He  does 


MASTER  AND  FRIEND     f>g 

not  come  from  the  enemy;  he  does  not 
come  from  the  French.  He  comes  from 
two  women  of  his  people  by  whom  the 
captive  is  beloved.  He  says  that  you  are 
the  nother  of  sons  and  grandsons,  and 
that  you  will  deliver  this  man  up  into  our 
hands  in  peace." 

The  narrow  fetid  streets  were  begin- 
ning to  fill  with  the  figures  of  women, 
their  beautifully  colored  robes  fluttering 
in  the  light,  and  there  were  curious  eager 
children  who  came  running,  naked  save 
for  the  bangles  upon  their  arms  and 
ankles. 

Pointing  to  them,  Hammet  Abou  said 
to  the  old  sage: 

"See,  you  are  only  women  here,  Fatou 
Anni.  Your  men  are  twenty  miles  farther 
south.  We  have  a  caravan  of  fifty  men  all 
armed,  Fatou  Anni.  They  camp  just 
there,  at  the  edge  of  the  oasis.  They  are 
203 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


waiting.  We  come  in  peace,  old  woman  ; 
we  come  to  take  away  the  Evil  Eye  from 
your  door;  but  if  you  anger  us  and  rave 
against  us,  the  dogs  and  women  of  your 
town  will  fall  upon  you  and  destroy  every 
breast  among  you." 

She  began  to  beat  her  palms  together, 
murmuring  : 

"Allah!    Allah!" 

"Hush,"  said  the  Bedouin  fiercely, 
"take  us  to  the  captive,  Fatou  Anni." 

Fatou  Anni  did  not  stir.  She  pulled 
aside  the  veil  from  her  withered  face,  so 
that  her  great  eyes  looked  out  at  the  two 
men.  She  saw  her  predicament,  but  she 
was  a  subtle  Oriental.  Victory  had  been 
in  her  camp  and  in  her  village;  her  sons 
and  grandsons  had  never  been  vanquished. 
Perhaps  the  dying  man  in  the  hut  would 
bring  the  Evil  Eye  !  He  was  dying,  any- 
way —  he  would  not  live  twenty-  four 

204 


MASTER  AND  FRIEND 


hours.  She  knew  this,  for  her  ninety 
years  of  life  had  seen  many  eyes  close  on 
the  oasis  under  the  hard  blue  skies. 

To  the  taller  of  the  two  Bedouins  she 
said  in  Arabic: 

"Fatou  Anni  is  nearly  one  hundred 
years  old.  She  has  borne  twenty  children, 
she  has  had  fifty  grandchildren;  she  has 
seen  many  wives,  many  brides  and  many 
mothers.  She  does  not  believe  the  sick  man 
has  the  Evil  Eye.  She  is  not  afraid  of  your 
fifty  armed  men.  Fatou  Anni  is  not  afraid. 
Allah  is  great.  She  will  not  give  up  the 
Frenchman  because  of  fear,  nor  will  she 
give  him  up  to  any  man.  She  gives  him 
to  the  women  of  his  people." 

With  dignity  and  majesty  and  with 
great  beauty  of  carriage,  the  old  woman 
turned  and  walked  toward  her  hut  and 
the  Bedouins  followed  her. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

INTO  THE  DESERT 

A  WEEK  after  the  caravan  of  the 
Due  de  Tremont  left  Algiers,  Julia 
Redmond  came  unexpectedly  to  the  villa 
of  Madame  de  la  Maine  at  an  early  morn- 
ing hour.  Madame  de  la  Maine  saw  her 
standing  on  the  threshold  of  her  bedroom 
door. 

"Chere  Madame,"  Julia  said,  "I  am 
leaving  to-day  with  a  dragoman  and  twen- 
ty servants  to  go  into  the  desert." 

Madame  de  la  Maine  was  still  in  bed. 
At  nine  o'clock  she  read  her  papers  and 
her  correspondence. 

"Into  the  desert — alone!" 

Julia,  with  her  cravache  in  her  gloved 
hands,  smiled  sweetly  though  she  was  very 

206 


INTO  THE  DESERT 


pale.  "I  had  not  thought  of  going  alone, 
Madame,"  she  replied  with  charming  as- 
surance, "I  knew  you  would  go  with  me." 

On  a  chair  by  her  bed  was  a  wrapper 
of  blue  silk  and  lace.  The  comtesse  sprang 
up  and  then  thrust  her  feet  into  her  slip- 
pers and  stared  at  Julia. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  in  the 
desert  ?" 

"Watch!" 

"Yes,  yes!"  nodded  Madame  de  la 
Maine.  "And  your  aunt  ?" 

"Deep  in  a  bazaar  for  the  hospital," 
smiled  Miss  Redmond. 

Madame  de  la  Maine  regarded  her  slen- 
der friend  with  admiration  and  envy. 
"Why  hadn't  I  thought  of  it?"  She  rang 
for  her  maid. 

"Because  your  great-grandfather  was 
not  a  pioneer!"  Miss  Redmond  answered. 


207 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


The  sun  which,  all  day  long,  held  the 
desert  in  its  burning  embrace,  went  west- 
ward in  his  own  brilliant  caravan. 

'The  desert  blossoms  like  a  rose, 
Therese." 

"Like  a  rose?"  questioned  Madame  de 
la  Maine. 

She  was  sitting  in  the  door  of  her  tent; 
her  white  dress  and  her  white  hat  gleamed 
like  a  touch  of  snow  upon  the  desert's 
face.  Julia  Redmond,  on  a  rug  at  her 
feet,  and  in  her  khaki  riding-habit  the 
color  of  the  sand,  blended  with  the  desert 
as  though  part  of  it  She  sat  up  as  she 
spoke. 

"How  divine!  See!"  She  pointed  to 
the  stretches  of  the  Sahara  before  her.  On 
every  side  they  spread  away  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach,  suave,  mellow,  black,  un- 
dulating finally  to  small  hillocks  with  cor- 
rugated sides,  as  a  group  of  little  sand- 
208 


INTO  THE  DESERT 


hills  rose  softly  out  of  the  sea-like  plain. 
'Took,  Therese!" 

Slowly,  from  ocher  and  gold  the  color 
changed;  a  faint  wave-like  blush  crept 
over  the  sands,  which  reddened,  paled, 
faded,  warmed  again,  took  depth  and 
grew  intense  like  flame. 

"The  heart  of  a  rose!  N'est-ce  pas, 
Therese?" 

"I  understand  now  what  you  mean," 
said  madame.  The  comtesse  was  not  a 
dreamer.  Parisian  to  the  tips  of  her  fin- 
gers, elegant,  fine,  she  had  lived  a  conven- 
tional life.  Therese  had  been  taught  to 
conceal  her  emotions.  She  had  been 
taught  that  our  feelings  matter  very  little 
to  any  one  but  ourselves.  She  had  been 
taught  to  go  lightly,  to  avoid  serious 
things.  Her  great-grandmother  had  gone 
lightly  to  the  scaffold,  exquisitely  courte- 
ous till  the  last. 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


"I  ask  your  pardon  if  I  jostled  you  in 
the  tumbrel,"  the  old  comtesse  had  said 
to  her  companion  on  the  way  to  the  guil- 
lotine. "The  springs  of  the  cart  are 
poor"  —  and  she  went  up  smiling 

In  the  companionship  of  the  American 
girl,  Therese  de  la  Maine  had  thrown  off 
restraint.  If  the  Marquise  d'Esclignac 
had  felt  Julia's  influence,  Therese  de  la 
Maine,  being  near  her  own  age,  echoed 
Julia's  very  feeling. 

Except  for  their  dragoman  and  their 
servants,  the  two  women  were  alone  in 
the  desert. 

Smiling  at  Julia,  Madame  de  la  Maine 
said:  "I  haven't  been  so  far  from  the 
Rue  de  la  Paix  in  my  life." 

"How  can  you  speak  of  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix,  Therese?" 

"Only  to  show  you  how  completely  I 
have  left  it  behind." 


INTO  THE  DESERT 


Julia's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  limit- 
less sands,  a  sea  where  a  faint  line  lost 
itself  in  the  red  west  and  the  horizon  shut 
from  her  sight  everything  that  she  be- 
lieved to  be  her  life. 

"This  is  the  seventh  day,  Therese!" 

"Already  you  are  as  brown  as  an  Arab, 
Julia!" 

"You  as  well,  ma  chtre  amie!" 

"Robert  does  not  like  dark  women," 
said  the  Comtesse  de  la  Maine,  and 
rubbed  her  cheek.  "I  must  wear  two 
veils." 

"Look,  Therese!" 

Across  the  face  of  the  desert  the  glow 
began  to  withdraw  its  curtain.  The  sands 
suffused  an  ineffable  hue,  a  shell-like  pink 
took  possession,  and  the  desert  melted  and 
then  grew  colder  —  it  waned  before  their 
eyes,  withered  like  a  tea-rose. 

"Like  a  rose  !"  Julia  murmured,  "smell 
in 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


its  perfume!"  She  lifted  her  head,  drink- 
ing in  with  delight  the  fragrance  of  the 
sands. 

"Ma  chtre  Julia,"  gently  protested  the 
comtesse,  lifting  her  head,  "perfume,  Ju- 
lia!" But  she  breathed  with  her  friend, 
while  a  sweetly  subtle,  intoxicating  odor, 
as  of  millions  and  millions  of  roses,  gath- 
ered, warmed,  kept,  then  scattered  on  the 
airs  of  heaven,  intoxicating  her. 

To  the  left  were  the  huddled  tents  of 
their  attendants.  No  sooner  had  the  sun 
gone  down  than  the  Arabs  commenced  to 
sing  —  a  song  that  Julia  had  especially 
liked. 

"Love  is  like  a  sweet  perfume, 
It  comes,  it  escapes. 
When  it's  present,  it  intoxicates  ; 
When  it's  a  memory,  it  brings  tears. 
Love  is  like  a  sweet  breath, 
It  comes  and  it  escapes." 

The  weird  music  filled  the  silence  of 


Qo§l0l       INTO  THE  DESERT 


the  silent  place.  It  had  the  evanescent 
quality  of  the  wind  that  brought  the 
breath  of  the  sand-flowers.  The  voices 
of  the  Arabs,  not  unmusical,  though 
hoarse  and  appealing,  cried  out  their  love- 
song,  and  then  the  music  turned  to  invoca- 
tion and  to  prayer. 

The  two  women  listened  silently  as  the 
night  fell,  their  figures  sharply  outlined 
in  the  beautiful  clarity  of  the  eastern 
night. 

Julia  stood  upright.  In  her  severe  rid- 
ing-dress, she  was  as  slender  as  a  boy. 
She  remained  looking  toward  the  horizon, 
immovable,  patient,  a  silent  watcher  over 
the  uncommunicative  waste. 

"Perhaps,"  she  thought,  "there  is  noth- 
ing really  beyond  that  line,  so  fast  blot- 
ting itself  into  night ! — and  yet  I  seem  to 
see  them  come !" 

Madame  de  la  Maine,  in  the  door  of  her 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


tent,  immovable,  her  hands  clasped  around 
her  knees,  looked  affectionately  at  the 
young  girl  before  her.  Julia  was.  a  de- 
light to  her.  She  was  carried  away  by 
her,  by  her  frank  simplicity,  and  drawn 
to  her  warm  and  generous  heart.  Ma- 
dame de  la  Maine  had  her  own  story.  She 
wondered  whether  ever,  for  any  period  of 
her  conventional  life,  she  could  have 
thrown  everything  aside  and  stood  out 
with  the  man  she  loved. 

Julia,  standing  before  her,  a  dark  slim 
figure  in  the  night  —  isolated  and  alone  — 
recalled  the  figurehead  of  a  ship,  its  face 
toward  heaven,  pioneering  the  open  seas. 

Julia  watched,  indeed.  On  the  desert 
there  is  the  brilliant  day,  a  passionate 
glow,  and  the  nightfall.  They  passed  the 
nights  sometimes  listening  for  a  cry  that 
should  hail  an  approaching  caravan,  some- 
214 


INTO  THE  DESERT 


times  hearing  the  wild  cry  of  the  hyenas, 
or  of  a  passing  vulture  on  his  horrid 
flight  Otherwise,  until  the  camp  stirred 
with  the  dawn  and  the  early  prayer-call 
sounded  "Allah !  Allah !  Akbar!"  into  the 
stillness,  they  were  wrapped  in  complete 
silence. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

TWO  LOVE  STORIES 

IF  IT  had  not  been  for  her  absorbing 
thought  of  Sabron,  Julia  would  have 
reveled  in  the  desert  and  the  new  experi- 
ences. As  it  was,  its  charm  and  magic 
and  the  fact  that  he  traveled  over  it  helped 
her  to  endure  the  interval. 

In  the  deep  impenetrable  silence  she 
seemed  to  hear  her  future  speak  to  her. 
She  believed  that  it  would  either  be  a 
wonderfully  happy  one,  or  a  hopelessly 
withered  life. 

"Julia,  I  can  not  ride  any  farther !"  ex- 
claimed the  comtesse. 

She  was  an  excellent  horsewoman  and 
had  ridden  all  her  life,  but  her  riding  of 
late  had  consisted  of  a  canter  in  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne  at  noon,  and  it  was  some- 
216 


TWO  LOVE  STORIES 


times  hard  to  follow  Julia's  tireless  gal- 
lops toward  an  ever-disappearing  goal. 

"Forgive  me,"  said  Miss  Redmond,  and 
brought  her  horse  up  to  her  friend's  side. 

It  was  the  cool  of  the  day,  of  the  four- 
teenth day  since  Tremont  had  left  Algiers 
and  the  seventh  day  of  Julia's  excursion. 
A  fresh  wind  blew  from  the  west,  lifting 
their  veils  from  their  helmets  and  bring- 
ing the  fragrance  of  the  mimosa  into 
whose  scanty  forest  they  had  ridden.  The 
sky  paled  toward  sunset,  and  the  evening 
star,  second  in  glory  only  to  the  moon, 
hung  over  the  west. 

Although  both  women  knew  perfectly 
well  the  reason  for  this  excursion  and  its 
importance,  not  one  word  had  been  spoken 
between  them  of  Sabron  and  Tremont 
other  than  a  natural  interest  and  anxiety. 

They  might  have  been  two  hospital 
nurses  awaiting  their  patients. 

217 


HIS  LOVE  STOR^i 


They  halted  their  horses,  looking  over 
toward  the  western  horizon  and  its  mys- 
tery. "The  star  shines  over  their  cara- 
van/' mused  Madame  de  la  Maine  (Julia 
had  not  thought  Therese  poetical),  "as 
though  to  lead  them  home." 

Madame  de  la  Maine  turned  her  face 
and  Julia  saw  tears  in  her  eyes.  The 
Frenchwoman's  control  was  usually  per- 
fect, she  treated  most  things  with  mock- 
ing gaiety.  The  bright  softness  of  her 
eyes  touched  Julia. 

"Therese!"  exclaimed  the  American 
girl.  "It  is  only  fourteen  days !" 

Madame  de  la  Maine  laughed.  There 
was  a  break  in  her  voice.  "Only  four- 
teen days,"  she  repeated,  "and  any  one  of 
those  days  may  mean  death !" 

She  threw  back  her  head,  touched  her 
stallion,  and  flew  away  like  light,  and  it 
was  Julia  who  first  drew  rein. 
218 


TWO  LOVE  STORIES 

«rfP3P 

"Therese!  Therese!  We  can  not  go 
any  farther!" 

"Lady!"  said  Azrael.  He  drew  his 
big  black  horse  up  beside  them.  "We 
must  go  back  to  the  tents." 

Madame  de  la  Maine  pointed  with  her 
whip  toward  the  horizon.  "It  is  cruel! 
It  ever  recedes!" 

"Tell  me,  Julia,  of  Monsieur  de  Sa- 
bron,"  asked  Madame  de  la  Maine  ab- 
ruptly. 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell,  Therese." 

"You  don't  trust  me?" 

"Do  you  think  that,  really?" 

In  the  tent  where  Azrael  served  them 
their  meal,  under  the  ceiling  of  Turkish 
red  with  its  Arabic  characters  in  clear 
white,  Julia  and  Madame  de  la  Maine  sat 
while  their  coffee  was  served  them  by  a 

Syrian  servant. 

/*» 
219 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 

"A  girl  does  not  come  into  the  Sahara 
and  watch  like  a  sentinel,  does  not  suffer 
as  you  have  suffered,  ma  chtre,  without 
there  being  something  to  tell." 

"It  is  true,"  said  Miss  Redmond,  "and 
would  you  be  with  me,  Therese,  if  I  did 
not  trust  you?  And  what  do  you  want 
me  to  tell?"  she  added  naively. 

The  comtesse  laughed. 

"Vous  etes  charmante,  Julia !" 

"I  met  Monsieur  de  Sabron,"  said  Julia 
slowly,  "not  many  months  ago  in  Pales- 
tine. I  saw  him  several  times,  and  then 
he  went  away." 

"And  then?"  urged  Madame  de  la 
Maine  eagerly. 

"He  left  his  little  dog,  Pitchoune,  with 
me,  and  Pitchoune  ran  after  his  master, 
to  Marseilles,  flinging  himself  into  the 
water,  and  was  rescued  by  the  sailors.  I 
wrote  about  it  to  Monsieur  de  Sabron, 


TWO  LOVE  STORIES 


and  he  answered  me  from  the  desert,  the 
night  before  he  went  into  battle." 

"And  that's  all?"  urged  Madame  de  la 

Maine. 
"That's  all,"  said  Miss  Redmond.    She 

drank  her  coffee. 

"You  tell  a  love  story  very  badly,  ma 
chhe." 

"Is  it  a  love  story?" 

"Have  you  come  to  Africa  for  charity  ? 
Voyons!" 

Julia  was  silent.  A  great  reserve 
seemed  to  seize  her  heart,  to  stifle  her  as 
the  poverty  of  her  love  story  struck  her. 
She  sat  turning  her  coffee-spoon  between 
her  fingers,  her  eyes  downcast.  She  had 
very  little  to  tell.  She  might  never  have 
any  more  to  tell.  Yet  this  was  her  love 
story.  But  the  presence  of  Sabron  was  so 
real,  and  she  saw  his  eyes  clearly  looking 
upon  her  as  she  had  seen  them  often; 


TITC    T  r~lVC" 
Jtllo   LUVc. 


heard  the  sound  of  his  voice  that  meant 
but  one  thing  —  and  the  words  of  his  letter 
came  back  to  her.  She  remembered  her 
letter  to  him,  rescued  from  the  field  where 
he  had  fallen.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  the 
Comtesse  de  la  Maine,  and  there  was  an 
appeal  in  them. 

The  Frenchwoman  leaned  over  and 
kissed  Julia.  She  asked  nothing  more. 
She  had  not  learned  her  lessons  in  discre- 
tion to  no  purpose. 

At  night  they  sat  out  in  the  moonlight, 
white  as  day,  and  the  radiance  over  the 
sands  was  like  the  snow-flowers. 
Wrapped  in  their  warm  coverings,  Julia 
and  Therese  de  la  Maine  lay  on  the  rugs 
before  the  door  of  their  tent,  and  above 
their  heads  shone  the  stars  so  low  that  it 
seemed  as  though  their  hands  could 
snatch  them  from  the  sky.  At  a  little  dis- 
tance their  servants  sat  around  the  dying 


mm 

w-vnra 


TWO  LOVE  STORIES 


fire,  and  there  came  to  them  the  plaintive 
song  of  Azrael,  as  he  led  their  singing : 

"And  who  can  give  again  the  love  of  yes- 
terday ? 

Can  a  whirlwind  replace  the  sand  after  it 
is  scattered? 

What  can  heal  the  heart  that  Allah  has 
smited  ? 

Can  the  mirage  form  again  when  there 
are  no  eyes  to  see  ?" 

"I  was  married,"  said  Madame  de  la 
Maine,  "when  I  was  sixteen." 

Julia  drew  a  little  nearer  and  smiled  to 
herself  in  the  shadow. 

This  would  be  a  real  love  story. 

"I  had  just  come  out  of  the  convent. 
We  lived  in  an  old  chateau,  older  than  the 
history  of  your  country,  ma  chere,  and  I 
had  no  dot.  Robert  de  Tremont  and  I 
used  to  play  together  in  the  allees  of  the 
park,  on  the  terrace.  When  his  mother 
brought  him  over,  when  she  called  on  my 

223 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


grandmother,  he  teased  me  horribly  be- 
cause the  weeds  grew  between  the  stones 
of  our  terrace.  He  was  very  rude. 

"Throughout  our  childhood,  until  I 
was  sixteen,  we  teased  each  other  and 
fought  and  quarreled." 

"This  is  not  a  love-affair,  Therese," 
said  Miss  Redmond. 

"There  are  all  kinds,  ma  chtre,  as 
there  are  all  temperaments,"  said  Ma- 
dame de  la  Maine.  "At  Assumption — 
that  is  our  great  feast,  Julia — the  Feast 
of  Mary — it  comes  in  August — at  As- 
sumption, Monsieur  de  la  Maine  came  to 
talk  with  my  grandmother.  He  was  forty 
years  old,  and  bald — Bob  and  I  made  fun 
of  his  few  hairs,  like  the  children  in  the 
Holy  Bible." 

Julia  put  out  her  hand  and  took  the 
hand  of  Madame  de  la  Maine  gently.  She 
was  getting  so  far  from  a  love-affair. 
224. 


TWO  LOVE  STORIES 


"I  married  Monsieur  de  la  Maine  in  six 
weeks,"  said  Therese. 

"Oh,"  breathed  Miss  Redmond,  "horri- 
ble!" 

Madame  de  la  Maine  pressed  Julia's 
hand. 

"When  it  was  decided  between  my 
grandmother  and  the  comte,  I  escaped  at 
night,  after  they  thought  I  had  gone  to 
bed,  and  I  went  down  to  the  lower  terrace 
where  the  weeds  grew  in  plenty,  and  told 
Robert.  Somehow,  I  did  not  expect  him 
to  make  fun,  although  we  always  joked 
about  everything  until  this  night.  It  was 
after  nine  o'clock." 

The  comtesse  swept  one  hand  toward 
the  desert.  "A  moon  like  this — only  not 
like  this — ma  chtre.  There  was  never 
but  that  moon  to  me  for  many  years. 

"I  thought  at  first  that  Bob  would  kill 
me, — he  grew  so  white  and  terrible.  He 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


seemed  suddenly  to  have  aged  ten  years. 
I  will  never  forget  his  cry  as  it  rang  out 
in  the  night.  'You  will  marry  that  old 
man  when  we  love  each  other?'  I  had 
never  known  it  until  then. 

"We  were  only  children,  but  he  grew 
suddenly  old.  I  knew  it  then,"  said  Ma- 
dame de  la  Maine  intensely,  "I  knew  it 
then." 

She  waited  for  a  long  time.  Over  the 
face  of  the  desert  there  seemed  to  be  noth- 
ing but  one  veil  of  light.  The  silence 
grew  so  intense,  so  deep;  the  Arabs  had 
stopped  singing,  but  the  heart  fairly 
echoed,  and  Julia  grew  meditative  —  be- 
fore her  eyes  the  caravan  she  waited  for 
seemed  to  come  out  of  the  moonlit  mist, 
rocking,  rocking  —  the  camels  and  the 
huddled  figures  of  the  riders,  their  shad- 
ows cast  upon  the  sand. 

And  now  Tremont  would  be  forever 
226 


TWO  LOVE  STORIES 


changed  in  her  mind.  A  man  who  had 
suffered  from  his  youth,  a  warm-hearted 
boy,  defrauded  of  his  early  love.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  he  was  a  charming  fig- 
ure to  lead  Sabron. 

"Therese,"  she  murmured,  "won't  you 
tell  me?" 

"They  thought  I  had  gone  to  bed,"  said 
the  Comtesse  de  la  Maine,  "and  I  went 
back  to  my  room  by  a  little  staircase,  sel- 
dom used,  and  I  found  myself  alone,  and 
I  knew  what  life  was  and  what  it  meant 
to  be  poor." 

9 

"But,"  interrupted  Julia,  horrified, 
"girls  are  not  sold  in  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury." 

"They  are  sometimes  in  France,  my 
dear.  Robert  was  only  seventeen.  His 
father  laughed  at  him,  threatened  to  send 
him  to  South  America.  We  were  vic- 
tims." 


"It  was  the  harvest  moon,"  continued 
Madame  de  la  Maine  gently,  "and  it  shone 
on  us  every  night  until  my  wedding-day. 
Then  the  duke  kept  his  threat  and  sent 
Robert  out  of  France.  He  continued  his 
studies  in  England  and  went  into  the  army 
of  Africa." 

There  was  a  silence  again. 

"I  did  not  see  him  until  last  year,"  said 
Madame  de  la  Maine,  "after  my  husband 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  MEETING 

UNDER  the  sun,  under  the  starry 
nights  Tremont,  with  his  burden, 
journeyed  toward  the  north.  The  halts 
were  distasteful  to  him,  and  although  he 
was  forced  to  rest  he  would  rather  have 
been  cursed  with  sleeplessness  and  have 
journeyed  on  and  on.  He  rode  his  camel 
like  a  Bedouin;  he  grew  brown  like  the 
Bedouins  and  under  the  hot  breezes, 
swaying  on  his  desert  ship,  he  sank  into 
dreamy,  moody  and  melancholy  reveries, 
like  the  wandering  men  of  the  Sahara, 
and  felt  himself  part  of  the  desolation,  as 
they  were. 

"What    will    be,    will    be!"    Hammet 
Abou  said  to  him  a  hundred  times,  and 


Tremont  wondered:    "Will  Charles  live 
to  see  Algiers?" 

Sabron  journeyed  in  a  litter  carried  be- 
tween six  mules,  and  they  traveled  slowly, 
slowly.  Tremont  rode  by  the  sick  man's 
side  day  after  day.  Not  once  did  the 
soldier  for  any  length  of  time  regain  his 
reason.  He  would  pass  from  coma  to  de- 
lirium, and  many  times  Tremont  thought 
he  had  ceased  to  breathe.  Slender,  ema- 
ciated under  his  covers,  Sabron  lay  like 
the  image  of  a  soldier  in  wax — a  wounded 
man  carried  as  a  votive  offering  to  the 
altars  of  desert  warfare. 

At  night  as  he  lay  in  his  bed  in  his 
tent,  Tremont  and  Hammet  Abou  cooled 
his  temples  with  water  from  the  earthen 
bottles,  where  the  sweet  ooze  stood  out 
humid  and  refreshing  on  the  damp  clay. 
They  gave  him  acid  and  cooling  drinks, 
and  now  and  then  Sabron  would  smile  on 


THE  MEETING 


Tremont,  calling  him  "petit  frere",  and 
Tremont  heard  the  words  with  moisture 
in  his  eyes,  remembering  what  he  had 
said  to  the  Marquise  d'Esclignac  about 
being  Sabron's  brother.  Once  or  twice 
the  soldier  murmured  a  woman's  name, 
but  Tremont  could  not  catch  it,  and  once 
he  said  to  the  duke: 

"Sing!  Sing!" 

The  Frenchman  obeyed  docilely,  hum- 
ming in  an  agreeable  barytone  the 
snatches  of  song  he  could  remember,  La 
Fille  de  Madame  Angot,  II  Trovatore; 
running  then  into  more  modern  opera,  La 
:-c  Joyeuse.  But  the  lines  creased  in 
Sabron's  forehead  indicated  that  the 
singer  had  not  yet  found  the  music  which 
haunted  the  memory  of  the  sick  man. 

"Sing!"  he  would  repeat,  fixing  his  hol- 
low eyes  on  his  companion,  and  Tremont 
complied  faithfully.  Finally,  his  own 
231 


880        HIS  LOVE  STORY 


thoughts  going  back  to  early  days,  he 
hummed  tunes  that  he  and  a  certain  lit- 
tle girl  had  sung  at  their  games  in  the 
allees  of  an  old  chateau  in  the  valley  of 
the  Indre. 

"Sonnez  les  matines 
Ding — din — don" 

and  other  children's  melodies. 

In  those  nights,  on  that  desolate  way, 
alone,  in  a  traveling  tent,  at  the  side  of  a 
man  he  scarcely  knew,  Robert  de  Tre- 
mont  learned  serious  lessons.  He  had 
been  a  soldier  himself,  but  his  life  had 
been  an  inconsequent  one.  He  had  lived 
as  he  liked,  behind  him  always  the  bitter- 
ness of  an  early  deception.  But  he  had 
been  too  young  to  break  his  heart  at  sev- 
enteen. He  had  lived  through  much  since 
the  day  his  father  exiled  him  to  Africa. 

The"rese  had  become  a  dream,  a  mem- 
232 


THE  MEETING 


ory  around  which  he  did  not  always  let 
his  thoughts  linger.  When  he  had  seen 
her  again  after  her  husband's  death  and 
found  her  free,  he  was  already  absorbed 
in  the  worldly  life  of  an  ambitious  young 
man.  He  had  not  known  how  much  he 
loved  her  until  in  the  Villa  des  Bougain- 
villeas  he  had  seen  and  contrasted  her 
with  Julia  Redmond. 

All  the  charm  for  him  of  the  past  re- 
turned, and  he  realized  that,  as  money 
goes,  he  was  poor — she  was  poorer. 

The  difficulties  of  the  marriage  made 
him  all  the  more  secure  in  his  determina- 
tion that  nothing  should  separate  him 
again  from  this  woman. 

By  Sabron's  bed  he  hummed  his  little 
insignificant  tunes,  and  his  heart  longed 
for  the  woman.  When  once  or  twice  on 
the  return  journey  they  had  been  threat- 
ened by  the  engulfing  sand-storm,  he  had 

233 


HIS  LOVE  STOIttS 


prayed  not  to  die  before  he  could  again 
clasp  her  in  his  arms. 

Sweet,  tantalizing,  exquisite  with  the 
sadness  and  the  passion  of  young  love, 
there  came  to  him  the  memories  of  the 
moonlight  nights  on  the  terrace  of  the  old 
chateau.  He  saw  her  in  the  pretty  girlish 
dresses  of  long  ago,  the  melancholy  droop 
of  her  quivering  mouth,  her  bare  young 
arms,  and  smelled  the  fragrance  of  her 
hair  as  he  kissed  her.  So  humming  his 
soothing  melodies  to  the  sick  man,  with 
his  voice  softened  by  his  memories,  he 
soothed  Sabron. 

Sabron  closed  his  eyes,  the  creases  in 
his  forehead  disappeared  as  though 
brushed  away  by  a  tender  hand.  Perhaps 
the  sleep  was  due  to  the  fact  that,  uncon- 
sciously, Tremont  slipped  into  humming 
a  tune  which  Miss  Redmond  had  sung  in 
the  Villa  des  Bougainvilleas,  and  of 
234 


THE  MEETING 


whose  English  words  De  Tremont  was 
quite  ignorant. 

"Will  he  last  until  Algiers,  Hammet 
Abou?" 

"What  will  be,  will  be,  Monsieur!" 
Abou  replied. 

"He  must,"  De  Tremont  answered 
fiercely.  "He  shall." 

He  became  serious  and  meditative  on 
those  silent  days,  and  his  blue  eyes,  where 
the  very  whites  were  burned,  began  to 
wear  the  far-away  mysterious  look  of  the 
traveler  across  long  distances.  During 
the  last  sand-storm  he  stood,  with  the 
camels,  round  Sabron's  litter,  a  human 
shade  and  shield,  and  when  the  storm 
ceased,  he  fell  like  one  dead,  and  the 
Arabs  pulled  off  his  boots  and  put  him  to 
bed  like  a  child. 

One  sundown,  as  they  traveled  into  the 
after-glow  with  the  East  behind  them, 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


when  Tremont  thought  he  could  not  en- 
dure another  day  of  the  voyage,  when  the 
pallor  and  waxness  of  Sabron's  face  were 
like  death  itself,  Hammet  Abou,  who  rode 
ahead,  cried  out  and  pulled  up  his  camel 
short.  He  waved  his  arm. 

"A  caravan,  Monsieur  !" 

In  the  distance  they  saw  the  tents,  like 
lotus  leaves,  scattered  on  the  pink  sands, 
and  the  dark  shadows  of  the  Arabs  and 
the  couchant  beasts,  and  the  glow  of  the 
encampment  fire. 

"An  encampment,  Monsieur!" 

Tremont  sighed.  He  drew  the  curtain 
of  the  litter  and  looked  in  upon  Sabron, 
who  was  sleeping.  His  set  features,  the 
growth  of  his  uncut  beard,  the  long  fringe 
of  his  eyes,  his  dark  hair  upon  his  fore- 
head, his  wan  transparency  —  with  the 
peace  upon  his  face,  he  might  have  been 
a  figure  of  Christ  waiting  for  sepulture. 
236 


THE  MEETING 


Tremont  cried  to  him:  "Sabron,  mon 
-weiix  Charles,  reveille-toil  We  are  in 
sight  of  human  beings !" 

But  Sabron  gave  no  sign  that  he  heard 
or  cared. 

Throughout  the  journey  across  the  des- 
ert, Pitchoune  had  ridden  at  his  will  and 
according  to  his  taste,  sometimes  journey- 
ing for  the  entire  day  perched  upon  Tre- 
mont's  camel.  He  sat  like  a  little  figure- 
head or  a  mascot,  with  ears  pointed  north- 
ward and  his  keen  nose  sniffing  the  desert 
air.  Sometimes  he  would  take  the  same 
position  on  one  of  the  mules  that  carried 
Sabron's  litter,  but  his  favorite  post  was 
within  the  litter,  at  his  master's  feet 
There  he  would  lie  hour  after  hour,  with 
his  soft  eyes  fixed  with  understanding 
sympathy  upon  Sabron's  face. 

He  was,  as  he  had  been  to  Fatou  Anni, 
a  kind  of  fetish :  the  caravan  adored  him. 

23? 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


Now  from  his  position  at  Sabron's  feet, 
he  crawled  up  and  licked  his  master's 
hand. 

"Charles!"  Tremont  cried,  and  lifted 
the  soldier's  hand. 

Sabron  opened  his  eyes.  He  was  sane. 
The  glimmer  of  a  smile  touched  his  lips. 
He  said  Tremont's  name,  recognized  him. 
"Are  we  home  ?"  he  asked  weakly.  "Is  it 
France?" 

Tremont  turned  and  dashed  away  a 
tear. 

He  drew  the  curtains  of  the  litter  and 
now  walked  beside  it,  his  legs  feeling  like 
cotton  and  his  heart  beating. 

As  they  came  up  toward  the  encamp- 
ment, two  people  rode  out  to  meet  them, 
two  women  in  white  riding-habits,  on  stal- 
lions, and  as  the  evening  breeze  fluttered 
the  veils  from  their  helmets,  they  seemed 
to  be  flags  of  welcome. 
238 


THE  MEETING 


Under  his  helmet  Tremont  was  red  and 
burned.  He  had  a  short  rough  growth  of 
beard. 

Therese  de  la  Maine  and  Julia  Red- 
mond rode  up.  Tremont  recognized  them, 
and  came  forward,  half  staggering.  He 
looked  at  Julia  and  smiled,  and  pointed 
with  his  left  hand  toward  the  litter;  but 
he  went  directly  up  to  Madame  de  la 
Maine,  who  sat  immovable  on  her  little 
stallion.  Tremont  seemed  to  gather  her 
in  his  arms.  He  lifted  her  down  to  him. 

Julia  Redmond's  eyes  were  on  the  litter, 
whose  curtains  were  stirring  in  the  breeze. 
Hammet  Abou,  with  a  profound  salaam, 
came  forward  to  her. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said  respectfully, 
"he  lives.  I  have  kept  my  word." 

Pitchoune  sprang  from  the  litter  and 
ran  over  the  sands  to  Julia  Redmond.  She 
dismounted  from  her  horse  alone  and 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


called  him:  "Pitchoune!  Pitchoune!" 
Kneeling  down  on  the  desert,  she  stooped 
to  caress  him,  and  he  crouched  at  her  feet, 
licking  her  hands. 


240 

y 
? 


"CHAPTER  XXV 

AS  HANDSOME  DOES 

WHEN  Sabron  next  opened  his 
eyes  he  fancied  that  he  was  at 
home  in  his  old  room  in  Rouen,  in  the 
house  where  he  was  born,  in  the  little 
room  in  which,  as  a  child,  dressed  in  his 
dimity  night-gown,  he  had  sat  up  in  his 
bed  by  candle-light  to  learn  his  letters 
from  the  cookery  book. 

The  room  was  snowy  white.  Outside 
the  window  he  heard  a  bird  sing,  and 
near  by,  he  heard  a  dog's  smothered  bark. 
Then  he  knew  that  he  was  not  at  home  or 
a  child,  for  with  the  languor  and  weak- 
ness came  his  memory.  A  quiet  nurse  in 
a  hospital  dress  was  sitting  by  his  bed,  and 


HIS  LOVE  STORY. 


Pitchoune  rose  from  the  foot  of  the  bed 
and  looked  at  him  adoringly. 

He  was  in  a  hospital  in  Algiers. 

"Pitchoune,"  he  murmured,  not  know- 
ing the  name  of  his  other  companion, 
"where  are  we,  old  fellow?" 

The  nurse  replied  in  an  agreeable  An- 
glo-Saxon French  : 

"You  are  in  a  French  hospital  in  Al- 
giers, sir,  and  doing  well." 

Tremont  came  up  to  him. 

"I  remember  you,"  Sabron  said.  "You 
have  been  near  me  a  dozen  times  lately." 

"You  must  not  talk,  mon  ineux." 

"But  I  feel  as  though  I  must  talk  a 
great  deal.  Didn't  you  come  for  me  into 
the  desert  ?" 

Tremont,  healthy,  vigorous,  tanned, 
gay  and  cheerful,  seemed  good-looking  to 
poor  Sabron,  who  gazed  up  at  him  with 
touching  gratitude. 


i* 

AS  HANDSOME  DOES 


"I  think  I  remember  everything.  I 
think  I  shall  never  forget  it,"  he  said,  and 
lifted  his  hand  feebly.  Robert  de  Tre- 
mont  took  it.  "Haven't  we  traveled  far 
together,  Tremont?" 

"Yes,"  nodded  the  other,  affected,  "but 
you  must  sleep  now.  We  will  talk  about 
it  over  our  cigars  and  liquors  soon." 

Sabron  smiled  faintly.  His  clear  mind 
was  regaining  its  balance,  and  thoughts 
began  to  sweep  over  it  cruelly  fast.  He 
looked  at  his  rescuer,  and  to  him  the  oth- 
er's radiance  meant  simply  that  he  was 
engaged  to  Miss  Redmond.  Of  course 
that  was  natural.  Sabron  tried  to  accept 
it  and  to  be  glad  for  the  happiness  of  the 
man  who  had  rescued  him.  But  as  he 
thought  this,  he  wondered  why  he  had 
been  rescued  and  shut  his  eyes  so  that  Tre- 
mont might  not  see  his  weakness.  He  said 
hesitatingly  : 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


"I  am  haunted  by  a  melody,  a  tune. 
Could  you  help  me  ?  It  won't  come." 

"It's  not  the  Marseillaise?"  asked  the 
other,  sitting  down  by  his  side  and  pulling 
Pitchoune's  ears. 

"Oh,  no!" 

"There  will  be  singing  in  the  ward 
shortly.  A  Red  Cross  nurse  comes  to 
sing  to  the  patients.  She  may  help  you  to 
remember." 

Sabron  renounced  in  despair.  Haunt- 
ing, tantalizing  in  his  brain  and  illusive, 
the  notes  began  and  stopped,  began  and 
stopped.  He  wanted  to  ask  his  friend  a 
thousand  questions.  How  he  had  come  to 
him,  why  he  had  come  to  him,  how  he 
knew  ...  He  gave  it  all  up  and  dozed, 
and  while  he  slept  the  sweet  sleep  of  those 
who  are  to  recover,  he  heard  the  sound  of 
a  woman's  voice  in  the  distance,  singing, 
one  after  another,  familiar  melodies,  and 


AS  HANDSOME  DOES 


finally  he  heard  the  Kyrie  Eleison,  and  to 
its  music  Sabron  again  fell  asleep. 

The  next  day  he  received  a  visitor.  It 
was  not  an  easy  matter  to  introduce  visit- 
ors to  his  bedside,  for  Pitchoune  object- 
ed. Pitchoune  received  the  Marquise 
d'Esclignac  with  great  displeasure. 

"Is  he  a  thoroughbred?"  asked  the 
Marquise  d'Esclignac. 

"He  has  behaved  like  one,"  replied  the 
officer. 

There  was  a  silence.  The  Marquise 
d'Esclignac  was  wondering  what  her 
niece  saw  in  the  pale  man  so  near  still  to 
the  borders  of  the  other  world. 

"You  will  be  leaving  the  army,  of 
course,"  she  murmured,  looking  at  him  in- 
terestedly. 

"Madame!"  said  trie  Capitaine  de  Sa- 
bron, with  his  blood  —  all  that  was  in  him 
—  rising  to  his  cheeks. 


HIS  LOVE 


"I  mean  that  France  has  'done  nothing 
for  you.  France  did  not  rescue  you  and 
you  may  feel  like  seeking  a  more  —  an- 
other career." 

Sabron  could  not  reply.  Her  ribbons 
and  flowers  and  jewels  shook  in  his  eyes 
like  a  kaleidoscope.  His  flush  had  made 
him  more  natural.  In  his  invalid  state, 
with  his  hair  brushed  back  from  his  fine 
brow,  there  was  something  spiritual  and 
beautiful  about  him.  The  Marquise  d'Es- 
clignac  looked  on  a  man  who  had  been 
far  and  who  had  determined  of  his  own 
accord  to  come  back.  She  said  more 
gently,  putting  her  hand  affectionately 
over  his  : 

"Get  strong,  Monsieur  —  get  well.  Eat 
all  the  good  things  we  are  making  for  you. 
I  dare  say  that  the  army  can  not  spare 
you.  It  needs  brave  hearts." 

SabroQ  was  so  agitated  after  Her  depar- 

246 


AS  HANDSOME  DOES 


ture  that  the  nurse  said  he  must  receive  no 
more  visits  for  several  days,  and  he  med- 
itated and  longed  and  thought  and  won- 
dered, and  nearly  cursed  the  life  that  had 
brought  him  back  to  a  world  which  must 
be  lonely  for  him  henceforth. 

When  he  sat  up  in  bed  he  was  a  shadow. 
He  had  a  book  to  read  and  read  a  few 
lines  of  it,  but  he  put  it  down  as  the  letters 
blurred.  He  was  sitting  so,  dreaming  and 
wondering  how  true  or  how  false  it  was 
that  he  had  seen  Julia  Redmond  come  sev- 
eral times  to  his  bedside  during  the  early 
days  of  his  illness  here  in  the  hospital. 
Then  across  his  troubled  mind  suddenly 
came  the  words  that  he  had  heard  her 
sing,  and  he  tried  to  recall  them.  The 
Red  Cross  nurse  who  so  charitably  sang  in 
the  hospital  came  to  the  wards  and  began 
her  mission.  One  after  another  she  sang 
familiar  songs. 


^ 

Wa*f23ES~ 

HIS  LOVE  STORY 


*£3i> 

"How  the  poor  devils  must  love  it!" 
Sabron  thought,  and  he  blessed  her  for 
her  charity. 

How  familiar  was  her  voice !  But  that 
was  only  because  he  was  so  ill.  But  he 
began  to  wonder  and  to  doubt,  and  across 
the  distance  came  the  notes  of  the  tune, 
the  melody  of  the  song  that  had  haunted 
him  for  many  months : 

"God  keep  you  safe,  my  love, 

All  through  the  night ; 
Rest  close  in  His  encircling  arms 

Until  the  light. 

My  heart  is  with  you  as  I  kneel  to  pray, 
Good  night!   God  keep  you  in  His  care 
alway. 

"Thick  shadows  creep  like  silent  ghosts 

About  my  head ; 
I  lose  myself  in  tender  dreams 

While  overhead 
The  moon  comes  stealing  through  the 

window-bars, 
A  silver  sickle  gleaming  'mid  the  stars. 


*\&£bff 

^>o®oO     AS  HANDSOME  DOES 


"For  I,  though  I  am  far  away, 

Feel  safe  and  strong, 
To  trust  you  thus,  dear  love — and  yet, 

The  night  is  long. 
I  say  with  sobbing  breath  the  old  fond 

prayer, 

Good  night!    Sweet  dreams!    God  keep 
you  every  where  1" 

When  she  ha*d  finished  singing  there 
were  tears  on  the  soldier's  cheeks  and  he 
was  not  ashamed.  Pitchoune,  who  re- 
membered the  tune  as  well,  crept  up  to 
him  and  laid  his  head  on  his  master's 
hand.  Sabron  had  just  time  to  wipe  away 
the  tears  when  the  Due  de  Tremont  came 
in. 

"Old  fellow,  do  you  feel  up  to  seeing 
Miss  Redmond  for  a  few  moments?" 

When  she  came  in  he  did  not  know 
whether  he  most  clearly  saw  her  simple 
summer  dress  with  the  single  jewel  at  her 

24" 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


throat,  her  large  hat  that  framed  her  face, 
or  the  gentle  lovely  face  all  sweetness  and 
sympathy.  He  believed  her  to  be  the  fu- 
ture Duchesse  de  Tremont. 

"Monsieur  de  Sabron,  we  are  all  so  glad 
you  are  getting  well." 

"Thank  you,  Mademoiselle." 

He  seemed  to  look  at  her  from  a  great 
distance,  from  the  distance  to  the  end  of 
which  he  had  so  wearily  been  traveling. 
She  was  lovelier  than  he  had  dreamed, 
more  rarely  sweet  and  adorable. 

"Did  you  recognize  the  little  song,  Mon- 
sieur ?" 

"It  was  good  of  you  to  sing  it." 

"This  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  seen 
you,  Monsieur  de  Sabron.  I  came  when 
you  were  too  ill  to  know  of  it." 

"Then  I  did  not  dream,"  said  the  officer 
simply. 

He  was  as  proud  as  he  was  poor.    He 

250 


AS  HANDSOME  DOES 


could  only  suppose  her  engaged  to  the 
Due  de  Tremont.  It  explained  her  pres- 
ence here.  In  his  wildest  dreams  he  could 
not  suppose  that  she  had  followed  him  to 
Africa.  Julia,  on  her  part,  having  done 
an  extraordinary  and  wonderful  thing, 
like  every  brave  woman,  was  seized  with 
terror  and  a  sudden  cowardice.  Sabron, 
after  all,  was  a  stranger.  How  could  she 
know  his  feelings  for  her?  She  spent  a 
miserable  day.  He  was  out  of  all  danger; 
in  a  fortnight  he  might  leave  the  hospital. 
She  did  not  feel  that  she  could  see  him 
again  as  things  were.  The  Comtesse  de  la 
Maine  had  returned  to  Paris  as  soon  as 
Tremont  came  in  from  the  desert. 

"Ma  tante,"  said  Julia  Redmond  to  the 
Marquise  d'Esclignac,  "can  we  go  back 
to  France  immediately  ?" 

"My  dear  Julia!"  exclaimed  h'er  aunt, 
in  surprise  and  delight.  "Robert  will  be 

251 


HIS  LOVE  STORYi 

enchanted,  but  he  would  not  be  able  to 
leave  his  friend  so  soon." 

"He  need  not,"  said  the  girl,  "nor  need 
you  leave  unless  you  wish." 

The  Marquise  d'Esclignac  entertained 
a  thousand  thoughts.  She  had  not  studied 
young  girls'  minds  for  a  long  time.  She 
had  heard  that  the  modern  American  girl 
was  very  extreme  and  she  held  her  in 
rather  light  esteem.  Julia  Redmond  she 
had  considered  to  be  out  of  the  general 
rule.  "Was  it  possible,"  she  wondered, 
"that  Julia,  in  comparing  Tremont  with 
the  invalid,  found  Robert  more  attrac- 
tive?" 

"Julia,"  she  said  severely,  as  though  her 
niece  were  a  child,  pointing  to  a  chair,  "sit 
down." 

Slightly  smiling,  the  young  girl  obeyed 
her  aunt. 

"My  dear,  I  have  followed  your  ca- 
252 


AS  HANDSOME  DOES 


prices  from  France  to  Africa.  Only  by 
pleading  heart-failure  and  mortal  illness 
could  I  dissuade  you  from  going  into  the 
desert  with  the  caravan.  Now,  without 
any  apparent  reason,  you  wish  to  return  to 
France." 

"The  reason  for  coming  here  has  been 
accomplished,  ma  tante.  Monsieur  de  Sa- 
bron  has  been  found." 

"And  now  that  you  have  found  him," 
said  the  marquise  reproachfully,  "and  you 
discover  that  he  is  not  all  your  romantic 
fancy  imagined,  you  are  going  to  run 
away  from  him.  In  short,  you  mean  to 
throw  him  over." 

"Throw  him  over,  ma  tante!"  mur- 
mured the  girl.  "I  have  never  had  the 
chance.  Between  Monsieur  de  Sabron 
and  myself  there  is  only  friendship." 

"Fiddlesticks!"  said  the  Marquise 
d'Esclignac  impatiently.  "I  have  no  un- 

253 


&2oO"        HIS  LOVE  STORY 


derstanding  of  the  modern  young  girl. 
She  makes  her  own  marriages  and  her 
subsequent  divorces.  I  am  your  aunt,  my 
dear,  your  mother's  sister,  and  a  woman 
of  at  least  twenty-five  years'  more  expe- 
rience than  you  have." 

Julia  was  not  following  her  aunt's  train 
of  thought,  but  her  own.  She  felt  the  hint 
of  authority  and  bondage  in  her  aunt's 
tone  and  repeated : 

"I  wish  to  leave  Algiers  to-morrow." 

"You  shall  do  so,"  said  her  aunt.  "I 
am  rejoiced  to  get  out  of  the  Orient.  It 
is  late  to  order  my  dresses  for  Trouville, 
but  I  can  manage.  Before  we  go,  how- 
ever, my  dear,  I  want  you  to  make  me  a 
promise." 

"A  promise,  ma  tante?"  The  girl's  tone 
implied  that  she  did  not  think  she  would 
give  it. 

"You  have  played  the  part  of  fate  in  the 

254 


AS  HANDSOME  DOES 


life  of  this  young  ma'n,  who,  I  find,  is  a 
charming  and  brave  man.  Now  you  must 
stand  by  your  guns,  my  dear  Julia." 

"Why,  how  do  you  mean,  ma  tante?" 

"You  will  go  to  Paris  and  the  Capitaine 
de  Sabron  will  get  well  rapidly.  He  will 
follow  you,  and  if  it  were  not  for  Tre- 
mont,  myself,  your  Red  Cross  Society  and 
the  presence  here  of  Madame  de  la 
Maine,  you  would  have  been  very  much 
compromised.  But  never  mind,"  said  the 
Marquise  d'Esclignac  magnificently,  "my 
name  is  sufficient  protection  for  my  niece. 
I  am  thinking  solely  of  the  poor  young 
man." 

"Of  Monsieur  de  Sabron?" 

"Of  course,"  said  the  Marquise  d'Es- 
clignac tartly,  "did  you  think  I  meant 
Robert?  You  have  so  well  arranged  his 
life  for  him,  my  dear." 

"Ma  tante"  pleaded  the  girl. 

255 


•^i 

HIS  LOVE  STORY 

^S^ 

The  marquise  was  merciless. 

"I  want  you  to  promise  me,  Julia,  be- 
fore you  sail  for  home,  that  if  Sabron  fol- 
lows us  and  makes  you  to  understand  that 
he  loves  you,  as  he  will,  that  you  will  ac- 
cept him." 

Julia  Redmond  looked  at  the  Marquise 
d'Esclignac  in  astonishment.  She  half 
laughed  and  she  half  cried. 

"You  want  me  to  promise  ?" 

"I  do,"  said  her  aunt  firmly,  regarding 
her  niece  through  her  lorgnon.  "In  the 
first  place  the  affair  is  entirely  unconven- 
tional and  has  been  since  we  left  France. 
It  is  I  who  should  speak  to  the  Capitaine 
de  Sabron.  You  are  so  extremely  rich 
that  it  will  be  a  difficult  matter  for  a  poor 
and  honorable  young  man.  .  .  .  In- 
deed, my  dear,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that 
I  shall  do  so  when  we  reach  home." 

"Oh,"  said  the  girl,  turning  perfectly 

256 


AS  HANDSOME  DOES     O^o 


C^O 


pale  and  stepping  forward  toward  her 
aunt,  ''if  you  consider  such  a  thing  I  shall 
leave  for  America  at  once." 

The  Marquise  d'Esclignac  gave  a  pet- 
ulant sigh. 

"How  impossible  you  are,  Julia.  Un- 
derstand me,  my  dear,  I  do  not  want  a 
woman  of  my  family  to  be  a  coquette.  I 
do  not  want  it  said  that  you  are  an  Amer- 
ican flirt — it  is  in  bad  taste  and  entirely 
misunderstood  in  the  Faubourg  St.-Ger- 
main." 

The  girl,  bewildered  by  her  aunt's  atti- 
tude and  extremely  troubled  by  the  threat 
of  the  marriage  convention,  said : 

"Don't  you  understand?  In  this  case 
it  is  peculiarly  delicate.  He  might  ask  me 
from  a  sense  of  honor." 

"Not  in  any  sense,"  said  the  Marquise 
d'Esclignac.  "It  has  not  occurred  to  the 
poor  young  officer  to  suppose  for  a  mo- 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 

ment  that  a  young  woman  with  millions, 
as  you  are  so  fortunate  to  be,  would  de- 
range herself  like  this  to  follow  him.  If 
I  thought  so  I  would  not  have  brought 
you,  Julia.  What  I  have  done,  I  have 
done  solely  for  your  peace  of  mind,  my 
child.  This  young  man  loves  you.  He 
believes  that  you  love  him,  no  doubt.  You 
have  given  him  sufficient  reason,  heaven 
knows !  Now,"  said  her  aunt  emphatical- 
ly, "I  do  not  intend  that  you  should  break 
his  heart." 

It  was  more  than  likely  that  the  Mar- 
quise d'Esclignac  was  looking  back  twen- 
ty-five years  to  a  time,  when  as  a  rich 
American,  she  had  put  aside  her  love  for 
a  penniless  soldier  with  an  insignificant 
title.  She  remembered  how  she  had  fol- 
lowed his  campaign.  She  folded  her 
lorgnon  and  looked  at  her  niece.  Julia 
Redmond  saw  a  cloud  pass  over  her 

258 


AS  HANDSOME  DOES 


aunt's  tranquil  face.  She  put  her  arms 
around  her  and  kissed  her  tenderly. 

"You  really  think  then,  ma  tante,  that 
he  will  come  to  Paris?" 

"Without  a  doubt,  my  dear." 

"You  think  he  cares,  ma  tante?" 

Her  aunt  kissed  her  and  laughed. 

"I  think  you  will  be  happy  to  a  bour- 
geois extent.  He  is  a  fine  man." 

"But  do  I  need  to  promise  you?"  asked 
the  girl.  "Don't  you  know?" 

"I  shall  be  perfectly  ashamed  of  you," 
said  the  Marquise  d'Esclignac,  "if  you  are 
anything  but  a  woman  of  heart  and  de- 
cision in  this  matter." 

Evidently  she  waited,  and  Julia  Red- 
mond, slightly  bowing  her  lovely  head  in 
deference  to  the  older  lady  who  had  not 
married  her  first  love,  said  obediently  : 

"I  promise  to  do  as  you  wish,  ma 
tante." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

CONGRATULATIONS 

THE  Due  de  Tremont  saw  what 
splendid  stuff  the  captain  in  the 

Cavalry   was   made   of  by  the 

young  man's  quick  convalescence.  Sabron 
could  not  understand  why  Robert  lin- 
gered after  the  departure  of  the  Mar- 
quise d'Esclignac,  the  Comtesse  de  la 
Maine  and  Miss  Redmond.  The  pres- 
ence of  the  young  man  would  have  been 
agreeable  if  it  had  not  been  for  his  jeal- 
ously and  his  unhappiness. 

They  played  piquet  together.  Sabron, 
in  his  right  mind,  thinner  and  paler,  never- 
theless very  much  of  a  man,  now  smoked 
his  cigarettes  and  ate  his  three  meals  a 

260 


CONGRATULATIONS 


day.  He  took  a  walk  every  day  and  was 
quite  fit  to  leave  the  Orient.  Tremont 
said: 

"I  think,  Sabron,  that  we  can  sail  this 
week." 

Sabron  looked  at  him  questioningly. 

"You  are  going,  then,  too — ?" 

"Of  course,"  said  the  young  nobleman 
heartily.  "We  are  going  together.  You 
know  I  am  going  to  take  you  back  in  my 
yacht." 

Sabron  hesitated  and  then  said : 

"No,  mon  vveux,  if  you  will  excuse  me  I 
think  I  shall  remain  faithful  to  the  old 
line  of  travel.  I  have  an  idea  that  I  am 
not  in  yachting  trim." 

Tremont  was  not  too  dull  to  Have  no- 
ticed his  friend's  change  of  attitude 
toward  him.  He  smoked  for  a  few  mo- 
ments and  then  said : 

"When  we  get  back  to  Paris  I  want  to 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 

have  the  pleasure  of  introducing  you  to 
my  fiancee." 

Sabron  dropped  his  cards. 

"Introducing  me !"  he  repeated.  Then 
putting  out  his  hand,  said  cordially:  "I 
knew  you  were  to  be  felicitated,  old  fel- 
low." 

Tremont  shook  his  hand  warmly. 

"Yes,  and  the  lady  is  very  anxious  to 
know  you.  It  is  Madame  de  la  Maine." 

A  very  warm  color  flushed  the  cheeks 
of  the  invalid.  He  remembered  all  he  had 
heard  and  all  he  had  known.  He  congrat- 
ulated his  friend  with  sincere  warmth,  and 
after  a  few  moments  said : 

"If  you  really  want  me  to  go  back  with 
you  on  the  yacht,  old  chap — " 

"I  really  do,"  said  Tremont  serenely. 
"You  see,  when  we  came  on  the  boat  we 
scarcely  hoped  to  be  so  fortunate  as  to 
bring  back  the  distinguished  captain." 

262 


CONGRATULATIONS 


Sabron  smiled. 

"But  you  have  not  told  me  yet,"  he  said, 
"why  you  came  down." 

"No,"  said  Tremont,  "that  is  true. 
Well,  it  will  make  a  story  for  the  sea." 


263  2HT 

J«^v 


VALOR  IN  RETROSPECT 

IN  the  month  of  May,  when  the  chest- 
nuts bloom  in  the  green  dells,  where 
the  delicate  young  foliage  holds  the  light 
as  in  golden  cups,  a  young  man  walked 
through  one  of  the  small  allees  of  the  Bois 
at  the  fashionable  noon  hour,  a  little  red- 
dish dog  trotting  at  his  heels.  The  young 
man  walked  with  an  imperceptible  limp. 
He  was  thin  as  men  are  thin  who  have 
lived  hard  and  who  have  overcome  tre- 
mendous obstacles.  He  was  tanned  as 
men  are  browned  who  have  come  from 
eastern  and  extreme  southern  countries. 

The  little  dog  had  also  an  imperceptible 
limp  occasioned  by  a  bicycle  running  over 
him  when  he  was  a  puppy. 

264 


VALOR  IN  RETROSPECT 


The  two  companions  seemed  immense- 
ly to  enjoy  the  spring  day.  Sabron  every 
now  and  then  stood  for  a  few  moments 
looking  into  the  green  of  the  woods,  look- 
ing at  the  gay  passers-by,  pedestrians  and 
equestrians,  enjoying  to  the  full  the  re- 
pose of  civilization,  the  beauty  of  his  own 
land. 

Pitchoune  looked  with  indifference  up- 
on the  many  dogs.  He  did  not  stir  from 
his  master's  side.  When  Sabron  was 
quiet,  the  little  animal  stood  at  attention  ; 
he  was  a  soldier's  dog.  He  could  have 
told  dog  stories  to  those  insignificant 
worldly  dogs  —  could  have  told  of  really 
thrilling  adventures.  His  brown  eyes 
were  pathetic  with  their  appeal  of  affec- 
tion as  they  looked  up  at  his  beloved  mas- 
ter. He  had  a  fund  of  experience  such  as 
the  poodles  and  the  terriers  led  by  their 
owners,  could  not  understand.  Therefore 


HIS  LOVE  STOICS       G>gagg 

^^sSss* 

Pitchoune  was  indifferent  to  them.  Not 
one  of  those  petted,  ridiculous  house  dogs 
could  have  run  for  miles  in  the  dark 
across  an  African  desert,  could  have 
found  the  regiment  and  fetched  relief  to 
his  master.  Pitchoune  was  proud  of  it. 
He  was  very  well  satisfied  with  his  career. 
He  was  still  young;  other  deeds  of  valor 
perhaps  lay  before  him — who  can  tell  ?  At 
any  rate,  he  had  been  shown  about  at  the 
ministry  of  war,  been  very  much  admired, 
and  he  was  a  proud  animal. 

When  Sabron  spoke  to  him  he  leaped 
upon  him  and  wagged  his  tail.  After  a 
few  moments,  as  the  two  stood  near  the 
exit  of  an  allee  leading  to  one  of  the 
grand  avenues,  Pitchoune  slowly  went  in 
front  of  his  master  and  toward  two  ladies 
sitting  on  a  bench  in  the  gentle  warmth  of 
the  May  sunlight.  Pitchoune,  moved  from 
his  usual  indifference,  gave  a  short  bark, 
266 


>§®£Q   VALOR  IN 

*=r^.'»r«or->t 

Z£ 

walked  up  to  the  ladies,  and  began  to  snuff 
about  their  feet.  The  younger  lady  ex- 
claimed, and  then  Sabron,  lifting  his  hat, 
came  forward,  the  crimson  color  beating 
in  his  dark  tanned  cheeks. 

The  Marquise  d'Esclignac  held  out 
both  hands  to  the  officer : 

"It's  nearly  noon,"  she  said,  "and  you 
don't  forget  that  you  have  promised  to 
lunch  with  us,  do  you,  Monsieur  le  Capi- 
taine?" 

Sabron,  bending  over  her  hand,  assured 
her  that  he  had  not  forgotten.  Then  his 
eyes  traveled  to  her  companion.  Miss 
Redmond  wore  a  very  simple  dress,  as 
was  her  fashion,  but  the  young  officer 
from  Africa  who  had  not  seen  her  near  by 
until  now  and  who  had  only  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  across  the  opera-house, 
thought  that  he  had  never  seen  such  a 
beautiful  dress  in  all  his  life.  It  was  made 
267 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


of  soft  gray  cloth  and  fitted  her  closely, 
and  in  the  lapel  of  her  mannish  little  but- 
tonhole she  wore  a  few  Parma  violets.  He 
recognized  them.  They  had  come  from  a 
bunch  that  he  had  sent  her  the  night  be- 
fore. He  kissed  her  hand,  and  they  stood 
talking  together,  the  three  of  them,  for  a 
,  few  moments,  Pitchoune  stationing  him- 
self as  a  sentinel  by  Miss  Redmond's  side. 

The  Marquis  d'Esclignac  rose.  The 
young  girl  rose  as  well,  and  they  walked 
on  together. 

"Mes  enfants,"  said  the  Marquise 
d'Esclignac,  "don't  go  with  your  usual 
rush,  Julia.  Remember  that  Monsieur  de 
Sabron  is  not  as  strong  as  Hercules  yet. 
I  will  follow  you  with  Pitchoune." 

But  she  spoke  without  knowledge  of  the 
dog.  Now  feeling  that  some  unwonted 
happiness  had  suddenly  burst  upon  the 
horizon  that  he  knew,  Pitchoune  seemed 
268 


suddenly  seized  with  a  rollicking  spirit 
such  as  had  been  his  characteristic  some 
years  ago.  He  tore  like  mad  down  the 
path  in  front  of  Sabron  and  Miss  Red- 
mond. He  whirled  around  like  a  dervish, 
he  dashed  across  the  road  in  front  of  auto- 
mobiles, dashed  back  again,  springing  up- 
on his  master  and  whining  at  the  girl's 
feet. 

"See,"  said  Sabron,  "how  happy  he  is." 

"I  should  think  he  would  be  happy.  He 
must  have  a  knowledge  of  what  an  im- 
portant animal  he  is.  Just  think!  If  he 
were  a  man  they  would  give  him  a  decora- 
tion." 

And  the  two  walked  tranquilly  side  by 
side. 

Pitchoune  ran  to  the  side  of  the  road, 
disappeared  into  a  little  forest  all  shot 
through  with  light.  He  came  back,  bring- 
ing the  remains  of  an  old  rubber  ball  lost 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


i  ^ 
M&1 


there  by  some  other  dog,  and  laid  it  trium- 
phantly in  front  of  Miss  Redmond. 

"See,"  said  Sabron,  "he  brings  you  his 
trophies." 


270 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

HAPPINESS 

ECOMTE  DE  SABRON  finished  his 
dressing. 

Brunet  surveyed  his  master  from  the  tip 
of  his  shining  boots  to  his  sleek  fair  head. 
His  expressive  eyes  said:  "Monsieur  le 
Capitaine  is  looking  well  to-night." 

Brunet  had  never  before  given  his  mas- 
ter a  direct  compliment.  His  eyes  only 
had  the  habit  of  expressing  admiration, 
and  the  manner  in  which  he  performed 
his  duties,  his  devotion,  were  his  forms  of 
compliment.  But  Sabron's  long  illness 
and  absence,  the  fact  that  he  had  been 
snatched  from  death  and  given  back  to 
the  army  again,  leveled  between  servant 
and  master  the  impassable  wall  of  eti- 
quette. 

tf*^.  ff 

271 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


"There  will  be  a  grand  dinner  to-night, 
will  there  not,  Monsieur  le  Capitaine? 
Doubtless  Monsieur  le  Colonel  and  all  the 
gentlemen  will  be  there."  Brunet  made  a 
comprehensive  gesture  as  though  he  com- 
prised the  entire  etat  major. 

Sabron,  indeed,  looked  well.  He  was 
thin,  deeply  bronzed  by  the  exposure  on 
the  yacht,  for  he  and  Tremont  before  re- 
turning to  France  had  made  a  long  cruise. 
Sabron  wore  the  look  of  a  man  who  has 
come  back  from  a  far  country  and  is  con- 
tent. 

"And  never  shall  I  forget  to  the  end  of 
my  days  how  Monsieur  le  Capitaine 
looked  when  I  met  the  yacht  at  Mar- 
seilles!" 

Brunet  spoke  reverently,  as  though  he 
were  chronicling  sacred  souvenirs. 

"I  said  to  myself,  you  are  about  to  wel- 


HAPPINESS 


come  back  a  hero,  Brunet !  Monsieur  le 
Capitaine  will  be  as  weak  as  a  child.  But 
I  was  determined  that  Monsieur  le  Capi- 
taine should  not  read  my  feelings,  how- 
ever great  my  emotion." 

Sabron  smiled.  At  no  time  in  his  sim- 
ple life  did  Brunet  ever  conceal  the  most 
trifling  emotion — his  simple  face  revealed 
all  his  simple  thoughts.  Sabron  said  heart- 
ily: "Your  control  was  very  fine,  in- 
deed." 

"Instead  of  seeing  a  sick  man,  Monsieur 
le  Capitaine,  a  splendid-looking  figure, 
with  red  cheeks  and  bright  eyes  came  off 
the  boat  to  the  shore.  I  said  to  myself: 
'Brunet,  he  has  the  air  of  one  who  comes 
back  from  a  victory.'  No  one  would  have 
ever  believed  that  Monsieur  le  Capitaine 
had  been  rescued  from  captivity." 

Brunei's  curiosity  was  very  strong  and 

273 


T$ 


^  «^s 

HIS  LOVE  STORY 

^  ^flgjafiP1 

as  far  as  his  master  was  concerned  he  had 
been  obliged  to  crush  it  down.  To  him- 
self he  was  saying:  "Monsieur  le  Capi- 
taine  is  on  the  eve  of  some  great  event. 
When  will  he  announce  it  to  me?  I  am 
sure  my  master  is  going  to  be  .married." 

Pitchoune,  from  a  chair  near  by,  as- 
sisted at  his  master's  toilet,  one  moment 
holding  the  razor-strop  between  his  teeth, 
then  taking  the  clothes  brush  in  his  little 
grip.  He  was  saying  to  himself :  "I  hope 
in  the  name  of  rats  and  cats  my  master  is 
not  going  out  without  me !" 

Brunet  was  engaged  to  be  married  to 
the  kitchen  maid  of  the  Marquise  d'Es- 
clignac.  Ordonnances  and  scullions  are 
not  able  to  arrange  their  matrimonial  af- 
fairs so  easily  as  are  the  upper  classes. 

"Monsieur  le  Capitaine,"  said  the  serv- 
ant, his  simple  face  raised  to  his  master's, 
"I  am  going  to  be  married." 


Sabron  wheeled  around:  "Mon  brave 
Brunet,  when  ?" 

Brunet  grinned  sheepishly. 

"In  five  years,  Monsieur  le  Capitaine," 
at  which  the  superior  officer  laughed 
heartily. 

"Is  she  an  infant,  are  you  educating 
her?" 

"When  one  is  the  eldest  son  of  a  wid- 
ow," said  Brunet  with  a  sigh,  "and  the 
eldest  of  ten  children — " 

The  clock  struck  the  quarter.  Sabron 
knew  the  story  of  the  widow  and  ten 
children  by  heart. 

"Is  the  taxi  at  the  door?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur  le  Capitaine." 

Pitchoune  gave  a  sharp  bark. 

"You  are  not  invited,"  said  his  master 
cruelly,  and  went  gaily  out,  his  sword  hit- 
ting against  the  stairs. 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


The  Marquise  d'Esclignac  gave  a  bril- 
liant little  dinner  to  the  colonel  of  Sa- 
bron's  squadron.  There  were  present  a 
general  or  two,  several  men  of  distinction, 
and  among  the  guests  were  the  Due  de 
Tremont  and  Madame  de  la  Maine.  Sa- 
bron,  when  he  found  himself  at  table, 
looked  at  everything  as  though  in  a 
dream.  Julia  Redmond  sat  opposite  him. 
He  had  sent  her  flowers  and  she  wore 
them  in  her  bodice.  Madame  de  la  Maine 
bent  upon  the  young  officer  benignant 
eyes,  the  Due  de  Tremont  glanced  at  him 
affectionately,  but  Sabron  was  only  con- 
scious that  Julia's  eyes  did  not  meet  his 
at  all. 

They  talked  of  Sabron's  captivity,  of 
the  engagement  in  Africa,  of  what  the 
army  was  doing,  would  not  do,  or  might 
do,  and  the  fact  that  the  Due  de  Tremont 
was  to  receive  the  decoration  of  the  Le- 

276 


HAPPINESS 


gion  of  Honor  in  July.  Tremont  toasted 
Sabron  and  the  young  officer  rose  to  re- 
spond with  flushing  face.  He  looked  af- 
fectionately at  his  friend  who  had  brought 
him  from  death  into  life.  The  moment 
was  intense,  and  the  Marquise  d'Es- 
clignac  lifted  her  glass: 

"Now,  gentlemen,  you  must  drink  to 
the  health  of  Pitchoune." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  laughter.  Ma- 
dame de  la  Maine  turned  to  Sabron  : 

"I  have  had  a  collar  made  for  Pit- 
choune; it  is  of  African  leather  set  with 
real  turquoise." 

Sabron  bowed:  "Pitchoune  will  be 
perfectly  enchanted,  Madame;  he  will 
wear  it  at  your  wedding." 

•  ••*•• 

Later,  when  the  others  had  left  them 
to  themselves  in  the  music-room,  Sabron 
sat  in  a  big  chair  by  the  open  window  and 

277 


LOVE  STORY 


Julia  Redmond  played  to  him.  The  day 
was  warm.  There  was  a  smell  of 
spring  flowers  in  the  air  and  the  vases 
were  filled  with  girofles  and  sweet  peas. 
But  Sabron  smelt  only  the  violets  in 
Julia's  girdle.  Her  hands  gently  wan- 
dered over  the  keys,  finding  the  tune 
that  Sabron  longed  to  hear.  She  played 
the  air  through,  and  it  seemed  as  though 
she  were  about  to  sing  the  first  verse.  She 
could  not  do  so,  nor  could  she  speak. 

Sabron  rose  and  came  over  to  where 
she  sat. 

There  was  a  low  chair  near  the  piano 
and  he  took  it,  leaning  forward,  his  hands 
clasped  about  his  knees.  It  had  been  the 
life-long  dream  of  this  simple-hearted 
officer  that  one  day  he  would  speak  out 
his  soul  to  the  woman  he  loved.  The  time 
had  come.  She  sat  before  him  in  her  un- 
pretentious dress.  He  was  not  worldly 
278 


IT  APPTMF^Q 
li/\i  i  UN  Jloo 


enough  to  k'now  it  cost  a  great  price,  nor 
to  appreciate  that  she  wore  no  jewels  — 
nothing  except  the  flowers  he  had  sent. 
Her  dark  hair  was  clustered  about  her 
ears  and  her  beautiful  eyes  lost  their  fire 
in  tenderness. 

"When  a  man  has  been  very  close  to 
death,  Mademoiselle,  he  looks  about  for 
the  reason  of  his  resurrection.  .When  he 
returns  to  the  world,  he  looks  to  see  what 
there  is  in  this  life  to  make  it  worth  liv- 
ing. I  am  young  —  at  the  beginning  of 
my  career.  I  may  have  before  me  a  long 
life  in  which,  with  health  and  friends,  I 
may  find  much  happiness.  These  things 
certainly  have  their  worth  to  a  normal 
man  —  but  I  can  not  make  them  real  be- 
fore my  eyes  just  yet.  As  I  look  upon  the 
world  to  which  I  have  returned,  I  see 
nothing  but  a  woman  and  her  love.  If  I 
can  not  win  her  for  my  wife,  if  I  can  not 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


have  her  love  —  "  He  made  an  expressive 
gesture  which  more  impressively  than 
words  implied  how  completely  he  laid 
down  everything  else  to  her  love  and  his. 

He  said,  not  without  a  certain  dignity  : 
"I  am  quite  poor;  I  have  only  my  sol- 
dier's pay.  In  Normandy  I  own  a  little 
property.  It  is  upon  a  hill  and  looks  over 
the  sea,  with  apple  orchards  and  wheat 
fields.  There  is  a  house.  These  are  my 
landed  estates.  My  manhood  and  my 
love  are  my  fortune.  If  you  can  not  re- 
turn my  love  I  shall  not  thank  Tremont 
for  bringing  me  back  from  Africa." 

The  American  girl  listened  to  him  with 
profound  emotion.  She  discovered  every 
second  how  well  she  understood  him,  and 
he  had  much  to  say,  because  it  was  the 
first  time  he  had  ever  spoken  to  her  of  his 
love.  She  had  put  out  both  her  hands 
and,  looking  at  him  fully,  said  simply  : 

280 


HAPPINESS 


"Why  it  seems  to  me  you  must  know 
how  I  feel — how  can  you  help  knowing 
how  I  feel?" 

After  a  little  he  told  her  of  Normandy, 
and  how  he  had  spent  his  childhood  and 
boyhood  in  the  chateau  overlooking  the 
wide  sea,  told  her  how  he  had  watched 
the  ships  and  used  to  dream  of  the  coun- 
tries beyond  the  horizon,  and  how  the  ap- 
ple-blossoms filled  the  orchards  in  the 
spring.  He  told  her  how  he  longed  to  go 
back,  and  that  his  wandering  life  had 
made  it  impossible  for  years. 

Julia  whispered :  "We  shall  go  there  in 
the  spring,  my  friend." 

He  was  charming  as  he  sat  there  hold- 
ing her  hands  closely,  his  fine  eyes  bent 
upon  her.  Sabron  told  her  things  that 
had  been  deep  in  his  heart  and  mind, 
waiting  for  her  here  so  many  months. 
281 


HIS  LOVE  STORY 


Finally,  everything  merged  into  his  pres- 
ent life,  and  the  beauty  of  what  he  said 
dazed  her  like  an  enchanted  sea.  He  was 
a  soldier,  a  man  of  action,  yet  a  dreamer. 
The  fact  that  his  hopes  were  about  to  be 
realized  made  him  tremble,  and  as  he 
talked,  everything  took  light  from  this 
victory.  Even  his  house  in  Normandy 
began  to  seem  a  fitting  setting  for  the 
beautiful  American. 

"It  is  only  a  Louis  XIII  chateau;  it 
stands  very  high,  surrounded  by  or- 
chards, which  in  the  spring  are  white  as 
snow." 

"We  shall  go  there  in  the  spring,"  she 
whispered. 

Sabron  stopped  speaking,  his  reverie 
was  done,  and  he  was  silent  as  the  inten- 
sity of  his  love  for  her  surged  over  him. 
He  lifted  her  delicate  hands  to  his  lips. 


HAPPINESS 


"It  is  April  now,"  he  said,  and  his  voice 
shook,  "it  is  spring  now,  my  love." 

At  Julia's  side  was  a  slight  touch.  She 
cried:  "Pitchoune!"  He  put  his  paws  on 
her  knees  and  looked  up  into  her  face. 

"Brunet  has  brought  him  here,"  said 
Sabron,  "and  that  means  the  good  chap 
is  attending  to  his  own  love-making." 

Julia  laid  her  hand  on  Pitchoune's 
head.  "He  will  love  the  Normandy  beach, 
Charles." 

"He  will  love  the  forests,"  said  Sabron  ; 
"there  are  rabbits  there." 

On  the  little  dog's  head  the  two  hands 
met  and  clasped.  "Pitchoune  is  the  only 
one  in  the  world  who  is  not  de  trop,"  said 
Julia  gently. 

Sabron,  lifting  her  hand  again  to  his 
lips,  kissed  it  long,  looking  into  her  eyes. 


§20        HIS  LOVE  STORY 


Between  that  great  mystery  of  the  awak- 
ening to  be  fulfilled,  they  drew  near  to 
each  other  —  nearer. 

Pitchoune  sat  before  them,  waiting.  He 
wagged  his  tail  and  waited.  No  one  no- 
ticed him.  He  gave  a  short  bark  that 
apparently  disturbed  no  one. 

Pitchoune  had  become  de  trop. 

He  was  discreet.  With  sympathetic 
eyes  he  gazed  on  his  beloved  master  and 
new  mistress,  then  turned  and  quietly 
trotted  across  the  room  to  the  hearth-rug, 
sitting  there  meditatively  for  a  few  min- 
utes blinking  at  the  empty  grate,  where 
on  the  warm  spring  day  there  was  no  fire. 

Pitchoune  lay  down  before  the  fireless 
hearth,  his  head  forward  on  his  paws,  his 
beautiful  eyes  still  discreetly  turned  away 
from  the  lovers.  He  drew  a  long  contented 
breath  as  dogs  do  before  settling  into  re- 
pose. His  thrilling  adventures  had  come 


HAPPINESS 


to  an  end.  Before  fires  on  the  friendly 
hearth  of  the  Louis  XIII  chateau,  where 
hunting  dogs  were  carved  in  the  stone 
above  the  chimney,  Pitchoune  might  con- 
tinue to  dream  in  the  days  to  come.  He 
would  hunt  rabbits  in  the  still  forests 
above  the  wheat  fields,  and  live  again  in 
the  firelight  his  great  adventures  on  the 
desert,  the  long  runs  across  the  sands  on 
his  journey  back  to  France. 

Now  he  closed  his  eyes.  As  a  faithful 
friend  he  rested  in  the  atmosphere  of  hap- 
piness about  him.  He  had  been  the  sole 
companion  of  a  lonely  man,  now  he  had 
become  part  of  a  family. 


THE  END 


03 


UC  SOUTKBN ICQONN.  UBRARY  FAC 


A    000129113    7 


